


broken compass, young wings

by orphan_account



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Changbin walks into college knowing three things:1) He’s never had a soulmate.2) He’s here at Seoul University to become an artist.3) He misses his best friend, but that’s okay. He’ll manage.By December, the list is fundamentally the same, with one addendum— he’s never had a soulmate, but he can’t seem to get Lee Felix, the energetic violinist next door, out of his mind.





	1. start line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strawhatmikans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawhatmikans/gifts).



Changbin isn’t a romantic— perhaps in another universe he might be, but not in this one.

He lets today be an exception, though, the road in front of him a winding ribbon of cement, the windshield drenched in glaring sunlight, the radio playing a soft mix of static and song. It’s as good of a moment for a beginning as one will get in this world, and for a single second Changbin slips on a metaphorical pair of rose-tinted shades and pretends he can hear the starting gun fire.

 

**[PAST]**

 

“I feel like I should be taking this more seriously than I actually am.”

Hyunjin is sitting on the curb, long legs extended out into the street and palms braced against the gravel. To passerby, he probably looks like a magazine cutout. To Changbin, he just looks like Hyunjin.

Changbin rolls his eyes. “You don’t take anything seriously beyond, like, calc finals and Park Jinyoung. Why would this be an exception?”

“Changbin—” Hyunjin sounds like he’s about to launch into an exasperated rant, but clicks his mouth shut on it at the last second. “You know what? Nevermind. Touche.”

It’s the end of summer, pavement hot to the touch and grass wilting from leftover heat. Changbin doesn’t like summer because it means he can’t wear hoodies and jeans, that his bare limbs are out on full display to the rest of the world.

Changbin is going to Seoul university today. His stuff is all packed up in cardboard boxes and loaded in the trunk of the car, and he has an hour before he has to leave. Hyunjin’s semester doesn’t start until later; he’s heading overseas in about a week.

Hyunjin gets up off of the curb. “Wanna get popsicles?” he asks.

Changbin shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”  

They head into Changbin’s home, opening up the freezer. Hyunjin takes out the battered popsicle box and rummages through it before letting out a groan. “Dammit, Changbin, did you seriously eat all of the blue raspberry ones?”

“One, probably yes, and two, this is not your house.”

“As you remind me everyday,” Hyunjin says. “It’s still a technicality.”

“I’m going to kick you out.”

“To where, across the street to our other house?”

Changbin snorts, taking out one of the mystery flavored popsicles, the only type in the box that’s left. Hyunjin doesn’t give up on his search— after blue raspberry, he looks for cherry, and then watermelon, before sighing and taking a mystery one as well.

They head back outside and Changbin closes his eyes against the heat.

“Mine tastes like piss,” Hyunjin grumbles.

“Sucks for you.” Changbin’s also kind of tastes like piss, but he’s not going to tell Hyunjin that. Perhaps all mystery popsicles are the same flavor. He sits down on the curb and hisses when his thigh makes contact with the concrete. “Shit, it’s hot.”

“Unlike you,” Hyunjin says. “Sorry. Just kidding.”

Changbin looks at him with disbelief. “Since when do you apologize for insulting me?”

“Since you’re leaving for instant ramen hell in T-minus one hour.”

“You do know you’re going to be in instant ramen hell soon, too.”

“Maybe it’s different in America?”

“I’m _pretty_ sure cup noodles are universal.”

“Ah, you’re a piece of crap, you know that?” Hyunjin says, with no bite to it. He leans back on his forearms. “Fuck, I’m kind of going to miss you.”

The statement comes out rushed and awkward. Over the summer, there had been moments when they’d tried to talk about how they were going in different directions for the first time since— well, ever— but inevitably went back to their usual banter, like dipping feet into shallow waters but never going further. Now, there’s no time left for anything but clumsily cannonballing into the deep end.

“Stop talking like I’m dying,” Changbin says. “Technology’s a thing now.”

“Yeah, but your old grandpa ass sucks with social media, and you’re shit at texting. Plus, now you can’t invade my house in the middle of the night and sleep in my bed.”

“Are you _sad_ about that?”

“You have your own fucking bed,” Hyunjin says, blatantly evading the question. “The point is that you’re basically going to like, Australia.”

“ _I’m_ going to Seoul,” Changbin says, with the air of explaining red plus yellow equals orange to a kindergartener. “ _You’re_ the one who’s going overseas.”

“Whatever, man. Shut up.”

Changbin lets out a soft huff of amusement and lapses momentarily into silence, focusing his eyes on the smudges on Hyunjin’s arms. Hyunjin’s arms are warm tan, highlighted with faded blues and yellows and oranges. If Changbin looks closely enough, he can see a blob that looks a little like his name.

Hyunjin never has to worry about wearing t-shirts.

“Seriously, we’ll be fine,” Changbin says, and tries to believe it. They’ve lived across the street from each other for eight years. “We can curse each other out over video call.”

“You _better_ fucking Skype me,” Hyunjin grumbles, finishing off his popsicle. “Or I’m going to kick your ass from overseas. And don’t ditch me for all the cool uni kids.”

“Don’t ditch me for all the Hollywood superstars.”

“See, no promises there.”

There’s the sound of the door opening, and then Changbin’s mom skids out onto the doorway. “Changbin!” she calls, and Changbin knows he’s not allowed to get out of a deep conversation with her. He crosses his fingers that neither of them will cry

“I’ll see you,” Hyunjin says, quiet. “Video call me, dude.”

“Will do.” Changbin shuffles forward awkwardly, and Hyunjin groans and strong-arms him into a tight one-second hug. Then Changbin is walking up the driveway, toward where his mom is standing with her hands on her hips.

He’ll miss this. He’ll miss everything.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

The campus is huge. That’s the first thing Changbin notices when he wheels in.

He and one of his roommates, Jisung, agreed to meet up when they first got to campus. Jisung is standing underneath a patch of shade, face exactly like the pictures he’d sent during the summer, and even from here Changbin can see the blue ink on his skin.

In a bout of haphazard thinking Changbin pulls a pen out of his bag and writes the word _eggs_ on his left arm. He feels ashamed a moment later— Jisung’s his roommate, he’ll find out that he’s soulmateless eventually— but the word _eggs_ is already on his skin so he adds a little sketch of an egg carton underneath it like the world’s most lameass tattoo before getting out of the car.

Forget the heat, Changbin should’ve worn a hoodie. He feels exposed. The university is so big and overwhelming. For a second, Changbin contemplates climbing back in the car and driving back home.

But then Jisung looks up and waves, jogging over. Too late now.

“Hey,” Jisung says.

“Nice to meet you,” Changbin replies, staring down at his feet. “Sorry I’m a little late. There was traffic.”

“It’s all good, I’ve only been here for around ten minutes, anyway. It took me forever to find Building S,” Jisung says. “You wanna go in and unpack? It’s so hot out here.”

Changbin nods, going over to his car. He pulls a couple of boxes out and stacks them up onto his arms. Jisung’s got a bag slung over his shoulder, seeming to be completely at ease, and Changbin wonders if that’ll rub off on him.

“Is that all of your stuff?” Changbin asks. He’s still got two more boxes in the car.

Jisung nods. “Yeah, I travel light. I just basically have, like, clothes and my notebook.” As soon as he says it, his eyes widen in panic, and he curses under his breath. “Wait, I left my notebook in my car, and the pen’s erasable and the ink disappears with heat—”

It’s blazing hot and the interior of a car heats up like an oven. Changbin makes a motion with his hand. “Go get your notebook.”

He doesn’t know what Jisung’s passion is, but with the frantic worry on his face and the fact that they’re on the liberal arts side of campus, Changbin just hopes that Jisung can get to the car before the ink fades.

“Alright, I’m sorry, thanks for reminding me,” Jisung says, already running away. “You go find our room first, I’ll catch up with you!”

Changbin is about to reply that he can wait, it’s fine, but Jisung’s already disappeared. So he sighs, picks up his boxes, and manages to get into the dorm without the door hitting his face. The place is fairly empty— he and Jisung are one of the first people here— and the only other person in the lobby is a boy, also with boxes in his arms.

The boy is waiting for the elevator. And Changbin needs the elevator too, because his room is up on the fourth floor, but the idea of waiting around with a total stranger in what is essentially a moving closet gives him anxiety. The guy has already seen him, though, and he makes a gesture toward the open door with his elbow like, _come in._

Changbin isn’t about to irritate anyone. He walks in, and the doors close.

The other guy pushes the button for four, which is also Changbin’s level. Changbin chews on the inside of his cheek and crosses his fingers that the guy won’t try to make small talk. Currently, the other is humming along with the crappy elevator music, lips set in a neutral line. There’s a splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose. There’s no ink on his skin.

Changbin stares at the wall and feels even more dumb about the eggs on his left forearm. He’ll wash it off as soon as he gets to the room. What was he thinking?

“Um,” the boy says, and Changbin startles at the deepness of his voice. It doesn’t match his face at all. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think we may be stuck.”

Changbin realizes now that the elevator seems to have stopped moving, and also that the number on the screen up front is firmly stuck at two. The bubblegum pop song plays in the background like an awkward movie montage. It’s sweltering in here.

“You’re right.” Changbin’s voice is stoic. Inside, a thousand alarm bells go off.

The other nods. “I’m just gonna, uh,” he says, and then hits the _call_ button on the side of the door. There’s an awful few seconds of silence before someone asks, “Hello?”

“Hello,” the other guy says, sounding relieved. “The elevator’s stuck.”

There’s what sounds like a sigh on the other end of the line, before the person yells, “Hey!” It takes a moment for Changbin to realize that the person is talking to someone else. “Incoming freshmen got stuck in the hellevator! We need to put that out of order sign up again.”

“Did they say _hellevator_?” Changbin asks in disbelief, before realizing he should’ve kept his mouth shut. Now he’s set up the precedent for conversation.

Next to him, the boy’s face splits into a smile, and it’s blinding. “I thought I was the only one that heard that. I guess they did.”

“Clever, right?” the person on the other end of the line says. “It sucks that no one warned you, though. Hey, I think someone’s coming. Sit tight, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

The line cuts off and Changbin stuffs his hands in his pockets. His fingers knock on the side of his phone, and he suddenly remembers Jisung, who by now has probably gotten his notebook, and has to contend with the fact his roommate is stuck in a lift mechanism from hell.

“I’m um, going to text my roommate…” Changbin tells the boy.

He winces. Why would the guy be interested? But the other just nods, setting his boxes down on the elevator floor, takes a seat on the ground with his back to the wall.

“That sounds good,” he says, once he’s situated. “I’d tell my roommate about the demonic elevator too, but he’s a sophomore and probably already knows. Really, _he_ should’ve told me.”

Changbin smiles, small, and shoots a text over to Jisung that says, _don’t use the elevator, it got stuck_. The elevator is stuck, yes, and it’s dark and hot and there’s a stranger on the floor next to him that seems completely oblivious to the fact that this is not exactly a situation that anyone wants to be in. Or maybe that’s just Changbin.

On the plus side, it’s not as awkward as Changbin had initially feared.

“I’m Felix,” the other says conversationally. “You?”

Changbin sticks his phone back in his pocket. “I’m Changbin. I guess we’re floormates.”

“Yeah. I’m room four.”

So Felix is two doors over. “Three.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Felix says, somehow managing to make the words sound _genuine_. “Who are your roommates?” He juts his chin over toward Changbin’s phone.

“Um,” Changbin starts. “The one I just texted is named Jisung, he’s a freshman like us. There’s another guy, though, he’s a junior. I haven’t talked to him very much…”

Not that the junior— Chan— hadn’t tried to contact him. It’s just, it’s hard enough for Changbin to talk to new people, and it’s even harder when Chan’s older than him. The two years separating them isn’t logically that big of a barrier, but to Changbin, it might as well have been a chasm.

“Well, I hope he’s not a jerk, for your sake,” Felix says. “Not gonna lie, I’m not used to the idea of rooming with someone. But my roommate, I’ve… talked to him before.”

Changbin doesn’t think much of the pause. “You’re from overseas, right?”

“The accent gives it away, yeah,” Felix says, wincing. “I’m from Australia.” Christ, that’s far. Even Hyunjin wouldn’t be able to kick his ass from there. “I’ve been studying Korean a few years so I could come here, but I probably don’t sound like a native still.”

Changbin shrugs. “Your Korean is good, though. And it’s cool that you’re from another country.”

Felix smiles again— it doesn’t take much for him to do that, does it— and then there’s the sound of a turning key before the doors slide open, revealing a girl with a long-suffering expression. The elevator is stuck in between two floors, and Changbin hoists himself up and over, and Felix does so as well.

“Use the stairs next time,” she says curtly, and walks away.

They nod, and Felix pulls the boxes out of the elevator along with Changbin’s, handing them over.

“Air conditioning,” Felix sighs dreamily, spreading his arms.

“That elevator was basically an oven, yeah.”

“The hellevator,” Felix snickers, and Changbin coughs.

The two of them head upstairs and toward their respective rooms. Changbin doesn’t mind stairs, but by the fourth set he’s a little bit tired of them. The door to Felix’s room is already open, and he waves at Changbin before disappearing out of sight.

Above Changbin’s door is a brass 3, the word _RACHA_ scratched into the wall next to it. Changbin squints at it for a second, wondering what it means, before shaking his head and going inside.

The room is fairly small for three people; it’s just beds and cabinets. Showers and bathrooms are at the end of the hall, and the communal kitchen is a floor down. Jisung is already in the room, and when he sees Changbin, he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“I got your text,” he says. “Geez, that’s rough.”

“Tell me about it,” Changbin says, although to be fair, Felix wasn’t so bad to talk to. “Did you salvage your notebook, at least?”

Jisung nods. “Yeah. The ink doesn’t look like it’s faded or anything. Again, sorry for running out on you.”

“You’re fine,” Changbin says dismissively. “The elevator would’ve been even more crowded if you’d also been in there.”

“Oh, there was someone else in there with you?”

“Yeah, he’s on our floor, too,” Changbin says. “His name’s Felix. He’s from Australia. He seemed pretty nice.”

Apparently, oversharing is Changbin’s phenomenon for today, but Jisung nods and opens up the flaps of his box, saying, “I’m going to start unpacking.” He pauses. “You said you had another couple of boxes in your car with you, right? Do you want me to come with you to get those?”

Changbin shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I got it.”  

“Don’t get stuck in the elevator again,” Jisung says cheekily.

It’s so much like something Hyunjin would say that Changbin nearly forgets where he’s at. It takes him a moment to get the breath back into his lungs, to remember where he’s currently standing.

Changbin says, “I’ll try not to.”

Before he goes outside again, though, he stops at the bathroom to wash the eggs off his arm, until the water goes clear and there’s only a small blue smudge on his skin. Changbin knows that a lot of soulmates choose to go to the same college; that was never an option for him. He smiles a little ruefully at the thought.

 

**[PAST]**

 

_“The soulmate system works for ninety-nine percent of the population. With statistics like that, it’s pretty hard on the other one percent.”_

_~A Study On Halves, 1968._

\---

There is one night when Changbin is six.

He’s can’t sleep, and talking drifts to his room from downstairs, along with what sounds a lot like crying. He creeps out of the room and presses his ear up against the gaps of the stair banister.

“I just, I’m _afraid_ ,” his mom sobs. “We should be seeing something by now.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” his dad says, although he sounds equally as frantic. “Please, calm down. Maybe his soulmate was just born really late. We shouldn’t panic.”

“He’s already _six_ , and his skin is still perfectly clear. It isn’t normal.”

“Shh, you’re going to wake Changbin up,” his dad says, voice stern yet soft. “And you know, it’ll be fine even if he’s not— if he doesn’t…”   

His voice trails off, and Changbin presses his ear closer to the railing, a sick feeling in his stomach. His mouth tastes like bile and mint toothpaste.

“Of course I’ll always love him,” his mom says, her voice a thin whisper. “It’s just what other people will say. If he— you know, if he’s soulmateless.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and Changbin carefully goes back to his room and lies down on the bed, all hopes of sleep gone for the time being. He doesn’t fully understand what his mom and dad are saying, but he thinks he might.

He knows that his classmates will get stray ink marks and pen dots on their skin every once in awhile, the scribbles like magic. The teachers say that they’ll learn more about this when they’re older, and to just let it sit for the time being.

Changbin’s mom will turn his arms over sometimes, asking hopefully if he was sure that the pen on his skin and the marker between his fingers was there because he put it there, and always looks disappointed when Changbin nods yes, he’s sure. It’s enough that sometimes, Changbin wants to tell her no, just to make her smile.

\---

But the soulmate thing matters a lot less when he meets Hyunjin.

It’s a blisteringly hot day in the summer between kindergarten and first grade, and Changbin is going around the neighborhood on the bike he’d just learned to ride a month ago, on the route that he knows has the most downhills. He ends up running into a boy on the second cul-de-sac he goes to.

The boy is selling lemonade for one-hundred won a cup. He’s badly losing money, but that’s not something that he understands at six years old.

“Hi!” the boy calls, and Changbin halts to a stop. “Do you want to buy some lemonade?”

Changbin sticks his hand in his pocket and finds two coins in his pocket as the result of some couch-diving that he’d done yesterday.

“Sure,” he mumbles, setting his bike down on the curb and walking over.

“Do you live next to me?” the other asks excitedly. “I just moved here a week ago!”

_A new neighbor_? Changbin thinks. Shy, he scuffs at the cement with the toe of his shoe. “Really? Where’d you come from?”

“Uh, not very far away, my mom said she’d gotten a new job or something here so we had to move,” the boy says. “I think she’s at the bank right now. So I’m selling lemonade cause I’m bored.”

This is a logical thought process, and Changbin nods, although at this point the boy seems to have forgotten he’s supposed to be selling him lemonade in favor of making a new friend. Changbin doesn’t know this, but to the other boy, Changbin is two inches taller and his shirt is cool and the boy kind of really wants to be Changbin’s friend.

“I live across the street,” Changbin says, and gestures over to the other end. “What grade are you gonna go into?”

“I’m gonna be a second grader,” the boy says proudly. “You?”

“Me too, so we might be in the same class.”

The other grins. “That’s awesome.”

Then the boy finally remembers the lemonade and pours a cup out of the pitcher. The lemonade sloshes a little bit on the table, staining the crayon-covered surface with another dark splosh. Changbin hands over the dime and takes the cup, getting to drink only a sip before he chokes.

“Are you okay?” the other asks. Changbin coughs. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I’m fine,” Changbin mumbles, wiping his mouth. “It’s just really sour.”

“Ooh, sorry,” the boy says, nodding understandingly. “My mom must’ve bought a bad lemon from the store. You can have your dime back.”

Changbin shakes his head. “You can keep it.” Also unbeknownst to him, this is when the other boy decides they’re going to be best friends. He puts the dime in the pocket along with two other ones before promptly pouring the rest of the lemonade out on the grass, slumping down onto the field, arms beneath his head.

Changbin sits on the ground next to him. “I’m Changbin.”

The other boy’s eyes widen, like he just realized that they haven’t exchanged names yet. “I’m Hyunjin. Nice to meet you!”

And so Changbin helps the boy tear down his lemonade stand, which is just a cardboard box with _lemonaid_ written on it in shaky Sharpie, and then the two of them ride their bikes around the neighborhood. Changbin shows him all of the good downward slopes in the neighborhood and the little throng of trees nearby that, to Changbin, seems like a whole forest. Hyunjin agrees with this, and in the next few months they set up a tent there and fill it with two plastic chairs and a few comic books.

They play with each other at recess the next year, Hyunjin dragging him into games of four square and asking Changbin to teach him how to do the chalk drawings on the ground. He heads over to Changbin’s house after school and Changbin goes to his birthday party even though Hyunjin is sick, and by the next summer their moms are friends and Changbin likes Hyunjin more than any other kid in the world.

\---

A main thing about Hyunjin is that he shares.

It’s September, and Hyunjin and Changbin are making a leaf pile when Changbin yells, “Hyunjin, your arm!”

Hyunjin immediately looks down and gasps.

Across the pale of Hyunjin’s wrist is half of the word _hi_ , followed by several exclamation marks. Changbin stares, both envious and fascinated.

Hyunjin’s tried to contact his soulmate before. One can write a message to their soulmate once they turned eight; if there was no response, it meant their soulmate wasn’t of age yet. It was one of the attempts to regulate the system, since that kind of thing was hard to explain to younger children.

“Finally,” Hyunjin breathes. “I was sick of the random dots on my hand.”

“Let’s go inside and reply,” Changbin suggests, the excitement contagious, and the two of them run into Changbin’s kitchen.

Changbin grabs a pen off of his desk, and Hyunjin writes _hi!!!!_ back underneath. A message immediately forms in return.

“What are they saying?” Changbin demands.

“I think they’re writing their name.”

Changbin grabs his arm, reading the messy characters. “Seung— Seungmin?”

After that first message, Hyunjin and Seungmin send stuff back and forth on a daily basis. Changbin can tell that Hyunjin is fond of Seungmin in a way that he isn’t of Changbin. It’s not love or anything yet, but he always looks happy whenever he gets the messages on his arm, although for Changbin’s sake he never acts too excited.

At this point, Changbin knows he doesn’t have a soulmate. He doesn’t know if it’s because his soul was created as a single unit, or if the angels forgot to give him a connection, or if his soulmate’s dead— whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” Hyunjin says softly, one time in the winter.

It’s one of the sleepovers they’re allowed to have over the year. They’d both said they’d stay up all night, even though they’d be knocked out at ten.

“I don’t know,” Changbin says. “My mom seems sad about it.”

“You can share mine,” Hyunjin offers, and he sounds like he’s being serious.

A moment later, the two of them are distracted by the smell of hot chocolate wafting up from downstairs, and they stampede down the steps and fight over the colored marshmallows.

Changbin thinks about Hyunjin’s offer when he goes to bed that night. Hyunjin had fallen asleep ten minutes earlier, a blanket haphazardly curled around his body and drool down his chin. Changbin knows that sharing soulmates isn’t how it works.

But the important thing is that Hyunjin had been willing to do it, and Changbin thinks, he doesn’t need another half with Hwang Hyunjin by his side.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

When Hyunjin touches down in California a week later, he sends a picture over to Changbin of him holding up a peace sign with his face a little tired and hair a little unkempt from a thirteen hour flight. He’s in the airport terminal, the windows behind him glinting with light, the background skies a brilliant blue.

Jisung is in the room with him right now; when he sees Hyunjin’s picture, his eyes widen into impressed saucers.

“Whoa,” he comments, “Your friend is really good-looking.”

Changbin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he knows.”

Jisung isn’t saying this in anything but an objective way— first off, his arms are all inked up, so he’s obviously got a soulmate already, and second off, even _Changbin_ admits that Hyunjin is attractive, and Changbin’s watched Hyunjin eat paste in second grade. Puberty hit the guy like a brick.

A second picture arrives. _Call meeee_.

Changbin does. It rings for half a second before Hyunjin picks up, and then through the line comes the sound of background talk, along with what seems to be the roll of a broken suitcase.

Changbin says, “Pineapple pizzeria, at your service.”

“Changbin!” Hyunjin says. “How are you doing?”

“Not dead yet.”  

Next to him, Jisung snorts.

“Who’re you with?” Hyunjin asks curiously.

“Who are _you_ with? It sounds like you’ve got the entirety of LA next to you.”

“That’s because I’m in an airport, you dumbass. Ooh, I see churros, do I have money? Sorry, I’m distracted. Wow, the sun is bright over here. I swear it’s brighter than it is in Korea. I can’t even fucking see. But yeah, who are you with?”

Jisung leans over. “Hey, I’m Changbin’s roommate, Jisung.”

Changbin kind of envies how casually Jisung just fit himself into their conversation. He can’t talk to random strangers with that sort of ease.

“Nice to meet you,” Hyunjin says. “I’m Hyunjin.”

“It’s raining in Korea right now,” Jisung tells Hyunjin, who’s sent over another image captioned with _big-ass sun_. And with that, Jisung rolls off the bed and heads toward the doorway. “I’m gonna leave now so you two can talk.”

The door shuts, and Hyunjin comments, “He seems nice.”

“He is.”

“What’s your first week of uni been like?”

Changbin shrugs, although Hyunjin can’t see him. “It hasn’t even started yet, so not like much.”

It’s just been freshman orientation week, and Changbin’s mostly scoped out the school, sometimes with Jisung, sometimes alone. Chan arrived three days ago, and he’s this sort of intimidating mixed with an underlying kindness that makes him, paradoxically, even _more_ intimidating.

“Good to know. So interesting,” Hyunjin says. “I’m going to get a churro now.”

Changbin spends the next thirty seconds listening to Hyunjin making small talk with the vendor, feeling oddly at peace. Same old Hyunjin, even in America.

When Hyunjin is done ordering, Changbin says, “I think I made, like zero point seven friends, if you want to hear about that.”

There’s a crackle over the other end of the phone that sounds suspiciously like crinkling plastic wrap, and Hyunjin asks innocently, “I’m sorry, crappy connection. What’d you say about your high school GPA?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Changbin says, laughing.

“Jokes aside, that’s oddly specific. How’d you get that number?”

“Jisung constitutes as half a friend, that’s the dude you were just talking to. And then there’s Chan and Felix, who are both one-tenth.”

“Wow,” Hyunjin says, exasperated. “You need to have more confidence in your social skills. Or a looser definition of _friends_.”

Changbin splutters, “The definition is _already_ loose, you dick. Chan’s just my roommate, he’s a junior, and I haven’t talked to him much. And then Felix is— okay, Felix lives a door down, and the only reason I’m even including him as a tenth is because I got stuck in a fucking elevator with him.”

There’s a noise, and then Hyunjin cracks up over the end of the phone. Changbin waits for the laughter to die out, a small smile on his mouth. He’s pretty sure that after this, they’re not going to have too much time to talk at all, so it’s nice.

“You got stuck in an _elevator_ with him?” Hyunjin gasps. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The elevator broke,” Changbin says, lamely. “We were victims.”

“That’s some real-life sitcom material right there,” Hyunjin says, even though both of them know that nothing could’ve happened. If this were a sitcom, Felix would’ve turned out to be his soulmate, and then neither of them would’ve pressed the intercom button because they were too busy doing other things.

Did sitcoms even care about air conditioning? What about stale oxygen?

“Alright, well, I’m done with this churro and have nothing more to say to you, so I’m going to go now,” Hyunjin says. There’s a whoosh, and then a yelp. “Jesus Christ, I did _not_ expect it to be this hot!”

_That’s what my roommate said about you_ , Changbin thinks, but that would boost Hyunjin’s ego too much if he told him that.

“There’s a weather app,” Changbin says instead. “Use it.”

“You don’t get to talk to me about technology,” Hyunjin says, sounding affronted. “Anyway, I’ll see you, you ass. Take care.”

“See you.”

And then the line clicks shut.

Jisung is still off doing whatever, and Changbin sets his phone down and takes out his sketchbook. The last four digits of Hyunjin’s number are 4419, and so that’s what he titles the sketch. It’s a split image with one side being a girl in a dorm looking at her phone, the other side of a guy on a crowded street stuffing his phone into his backpack, backgrounds night and day, respectively. In the middle, dividing them, is a scalloped line like the waves of a sea.

Changbin likes telling stories with his art. Sometimes they’re his own. Sometimes they’re other people’s. He shuts the sketchbook when Jisung comes back. At this point, it’s past ten, and he tucks the book under his pillow and goes to take a shower.

\---

Courses start in earnest the next week, and Changbin learns that apparently, most of their hall rises early.

Changbin’s own biological clock is already completely broken. Even without coffee, he goes to sleep late at night and gets up at equally early, but he’s not used to other people following that same kind of schedule. So it’s a little bit weird when he wakes up at six-thirty, feeling both exhausted and unable to go back to sleep, and Chan’s bed is empty and Jisung is wide awake, already pulling mismatched socks on.

“Oh, hey, you’re up,” Jisung says. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Changbin shakes his head, although it’s possible that Jisung’s _Likey_ alarm had been present for the last vestiges of Changbin’s dreams. “Nah, you’re good. Where’s Chan?”

“Oh, Chan? Guy’s insane, he’s got an 8AM lecture on Tuesday and Wednesday and then an 8PM on Wednesday as well. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him sleep.”

“You’re up early as well,” Changbin notes.

“Well, so are you.”

“Maybe it’s contagious.”

Jisung smiles brightly, shoving his feet into his shoes. “I’m usually not up _this_ early. I’ve just got something I need to finish. Want to come to the dining hall with me, though? I just learned they’ve got a waffle maker.”

Jisung sounds so excited about this that Changbin kind of wants to laugh. While Jisung rolls his blanket up, Changbin yanks on a pair of jeans and runs a comb through his hair twice before giving up and sticking a beanie on his head.

“Why do drugs,” Jisung says, as they walk out into the hall, “When you can have waffles instead.”

“Do you have any syrup preferences?”

“No, I just really like all breakfast food in general,” Jisung says. “They’re kind of all like, dessert stuff, but you’re too tired to count your calories. It’s great.”

“Point,” Changbin concedes, and Jisung grins.

The door next to theirs slams open, and Felix appears, stifling a yawn with his hand. He’s got his violin case next to him, and Changbin had been joking about the early riser thing being contagious, but he’s starting to think that this might be a recurring theme.

“Oh, hey, Felix,” Jisung says. Because of course they’re already friends.

“Jisung, Changbin,” Felix says, and stifles another yawn with his hand. He’s smiling a little bit, too, and it’s kind of funny when he’s doing it so tired, like watching the sun try to rise. “I… do not like mornings.”

He leans his head against the wall, and Changbin says, “I can tell.”

“I’m just up because I need to get one of the good practice rooms.”  

“Do you want to get breakfast with us? There’s a wafflemaker,” Jisung says.

Felix’s eyes light up at the mention of a wafflemaker— maybe Changbin needs to try this, because he doesn’t understand the fuss about it— but then he shakes his head regretfully. “Nah, I got it covered,” he says, and holds up a plastic-wrapped breakfast bar. “I have these in bulk.”

“You already look like you’re going to keel over, and it’s like two days into the semester,” Jisung says. “Nice.”

“Gotta set the tone early, bro. Anyway, see you guys.”

Felix does a hand motion that looks like a cross between finger-guns and a wave before walking off, violin in tow. Changbin hadn’t known that Felix was a violinist— the violin definitely hadn’t been between all the boxes when the elevator had gotten stuck. But it looked like the guy took it seriously, what with the whole getting a good practice room at ass o’clock in the morning.

“How do you know Felix?” Jisung asks curiously.

“I got stuck in an elevator with him.”

“Oh right, he was the elevator dude, I forgot!” Jisung exclaims. “ _Nice_. I just met him while we were unpacking. Ah, that’s such a boring story compared to yours.”

“You don’t want to get stuck in an elevator,” Changbin says. “It isn’t fun.”

And then they head off across campus, the rain from last night making the grass all dewy. Jisung toes a shoe into a puddle, humming a song that Changbin vaguely recognizes. When the two of them get to the dining hall, it’s fairly empty, most people looking like they’re half dead.

“Here, hold the seat, I’ll go get food,” Jisung says. “What do you want?”

“Bread?”

“Pfft, generic. But alright, I’ll be back.”

Changbin sits down and Jisung returns holding a tray with two bread buns and a giant waffle with various puddles of syrup around it. Changbin takes the plate with the bread and takes a bite, notes that it tastes like cardboard, and continues to eat it anyway.

“This waffle is actually disgusting,” Jisung informs him, chewing. “But it’s the principle of it. I’ll trade you a square for part of your bread.”

“I’m pretty sure this won’t taste much better,” Changbin says, and hands a bite to him.

Jisung eats it. “Eh, it’s okay, I guess,” he says, although he sounds rather disheartened. “Whatever. What’s your first class for today?”

Changbin shrugs. He doesn’t have an actual art class until tomorrow afternoon— morning is just calculus. He’s pretty good at math, could’ve probably majored in the STEM field, if that was the kind of thing he liked. “Calc.”

“Ew, have fun.”

“What about you?”

Jisung chews, swallows. “Bio. I’ve got about three hours to kill before that.”

Changbin has about two hours; their schedules are fairly in sync. Although, he can’t really say the same about Chan. Jisung continues eating, folding up the waffle and dipping it in the little puddles of syrup that he’d created, and if Changbin squints hard enough it kind of looks like a palette. He internally debates the mechanics of drawing on a waffle. Basically anything can be passed off as modern art in the right light.

Jisung pulls out his notebook, asking, “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

Jisung smiles at him and starts writing, face losing its playfulness as he disappears in whatever he’s scribbling down. Changbin looks at Jisung’s arms and realizes that maybe all of the fading ink is poetry, snippets of stories, miniature universes on his skin. They’re not close enough yet to talk about soulmates, but in his head, Changbin quietly bumps Jisung up from half a friend to an entire one.

\---

It’s Friday, and Changbin is tired.

It’s not that coursework has really kicked in yet, although the current load is an ominous sign of what’s to come, but the absorbing of so much _new_ drains his energy in a whole different way than work and sleep do.

At seven, Chan gets back to the dorm, plastic bag in hand. From it he takes out six cups of ramen and a couple plastic packets of sriracha, stacking them into a pyramid on the shelf.

“Heads up,” Chan says, “there’s a party two buildings down, if you’re interested. Like a welcome back thing.”

Jisung tilts his head. “Hey, Changbin, you up for that?”

Changbin swallows. Currently, his only sense of college parties are from movies, and he’s not too sure how accurate that portrayal is. His preferred genre is horror, and it’s not the idea of a hidden serial killer that scares him— it’s everything else. Changbin’s okay with one on one interactions, especially if he’s already known the other person for some time, but parties are mosaics of different dynamics and loud music and dirty dancing and Changbin has no idea how he fits in there.

“No, it’s literally a welcome back thing,” Chan tells him, seeming to sense his thoughts, although not completely accurately. “I mean, there might be alcohol, but it’s mostly just meeting new people and stuff. No one’s going to asphyxiate or try to jump out the window. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” Jisung echoes.

Changbin says, slowly, “I’ll go if Jisung is going.”

“Dude, I’m going,” Jisung says. “I’m sort of curious about what this thing is like.”

“Alright, then,” Chan says. “Look for Woojin if you feel out of your element, alright? He’s got this crazy blonde ombre hair thing going on. You can’t miss it.”

Jisung grins. “Cool.”

So Changbin tries to make himself look presentable, although he has no idea what sort of vibe this party’s going. He wonders why he said yes to this in the first place; maybe it’s because Jisung’s been kind to him so far, and Changbin feels like he owes him; maybe it’s because he’s a little starstruck by Chan, who’s got way more social experience under his belt but is still telling his freshman roommates about a nearby party.

Indirectly, it’s because of Hyunjin. Changbin doesn’t want to spend the next four years of college missing his best friend.

The three of them head over to the building two doors down, and Changbin goes inside. The place is warm, a mixture of weather and body heat. True to Chan’s predictions, no one’s jumping out the window, but there’s indeed some beer on the table over. Changbin hopes he doesn’t look too awkward. Next to him, Jisung is taking notes on his arm.

Jisung leans over. “What do you do at these things?”

Changbin shrugs. “Dude, I have no idea.”

The answer isn’t as hard as Changbin thinks, though, because he and Jisung find a semi-familiar face in about two minutes.

Felix is sitting on the couch and scrolling through his phone, wearing a black shirt and a simple silver necklace, thin chain stark against his skin.

He looks up, and his face splits into a grin. “Hey, you guys!”

“Hey, Felix,” Jisung says, with an equally wide smile. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I’m only here because of my roommate, he’s designated driver for a couple of his friends,” Felix says, pocketing his phone. “I think he ditched me to go hide in the bathroom. It’s a little bit sad.”

“That,” Jisung says, “sounds painfully awkward.”

“It is. I’ve been on Twitter this entire night.”

“Where’s the ombre hair dude that Chan told us to find?” Jisung asks, craning his neck. “Actually, where is Chan? You know what, that’s probably not something we need to worry about.”

Felix stands up. “I’m just gonna follow you guys, if you don’t mind.”

They don’t end up finding Woojin, but that doesn’t matter too much. On their search, someone offers them beers, and Jisung and Changbin accept, because it’s easier than saying no. Changbin takes a couple of mouthfuls, decides he doesn’t like the taste too much, and sets the can down on a nearby table. Jisung continues drinking, taking more notes on his arm between sips.

The beer makes Changbin feel slightly warmer, though, the colors of the world more vivid, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Over the course of the night, Jisung accidentally befriends someone, and Changbin shares a pair of Felix’s earbuds, listening to Felix’s playlist on shuffle. Felix has good taste; there’s no specific genre, but there’s a certain shine to the songs he listens to that indicates that Felix has an innate sense of music.

Around the sixth song, Changbin idly sticks his hands into his jeans pocket and feels his hand bump into a marker. He must’ve stuck it in there at some point, although he doesn’t remember when. And then Changbin gets an idea, so he taps Felix on the shoulder, and Felix takes out his earbud and beams a smile up at him.

Changbin’s stomach lurches uncomfortably, and Changbin thinks, that must be the alcohol. A lot of things must be the alcohol.

He uncaps the marker and asks, “Hey, can I draw on you?”

Changbin internally cringes at the way that comes out, and for a second he thinks that the smile on Felix’s face flickers. But then the moment is gone, and Felix nods.

“Go for it.”

So Changbin takes Felix’s arm and rolls up the sleeve, setting the pen down to skin. Like as in the elevator, Felix’s arm has nothing on it. He wonders what’s fitting for Felix, discards multiple ideas before his mind drifts to the violin, the crafted playlist. Changbin draws a line of sheet music around Felix’s wrist, like a bracelet, before adding vines that curl around either side of the staff. Felix’s skin burns to the touch.

“I don’t think I even need to even say it,” Felix says. “But you’re really good.”

Changbin caps the marker, swallowing hard, trying not to feel too pleased about the way Felix is staring at his wrist in wonder. “Thanks.”


	2. double knot

**[PRESENT]**

 

As far as hangovers go, this isn’t too bad of one.

But there’s still an unpleasant fuzz to Changbin’s brain and a bad taste to his mouth. The world seems crusted over, almost, colors washed out and warped. Changbin doesn’t like that at all, deciding that alcohol isn’t his thing.

He rubs his eyes and blinks. Chan is already awake, a pair of electric blue headphones over his head, tapping out a beat on his thigh. When he notices that Changbin’s up, he takes his headphones off, bracing his chin on his hand. “Morning.”

Changbin rubs his palms against his eyes. “Morning. I’m never doing that again.”

“It could be worse,” Chan says. There’s a rather traumatized look in his eyes, and Changbin wonders what kind of flashbacks he’s having. “Jisung went to get breakfast, if you’re wondering. He should be back soon.”

Changbin nods, and heads over to the communal bathroom to brush his teeth and school his hair into something that doesn’t resemble roadkill. When he returns to the room, Jisung is back, a grease-stained paper bag in his hands.

It’s sort of nice. Seven in the morning, Changbin choking down black coffee while Jisung complains about his headache and Chan tells a horror story from last year involving his friends, liberal amounts of beer, and a potted plant. All three of them have some form of headache, but their biological clocks are messed up enough that sleeping in isn’t a viable option.

Half an hour later, Chan checks his watch and stands up, an apologetic expression on his face. “I’m gonna head down to the library to print a paper. See you guys.”

“You’re such a functional human being,” Jisung groans. But despite his self-deprecating words, Changbin thinks he looks fine, too.

Chan gives a small wave before stepping outside, the door clicking shut behind him. “Changbin, you got any plans for the day?” Jisung asks, conversational.

Changbin sets down the coffee, finally giving up on the bitter taste. “Not really.”

“Exciting. But also, same.”

“We could go to the library, too?”

Jisung shakes his head. “Nah, that place kills my creativity. You go.”

“Alright, suit yourself.”

Changbin packs up his stuff and heads out of the room. Chan’s already long gone, which is fine with Changbin. He can talk to Chan while Jisung’s also there, but the idea of conversing with him one on one still makes him uncomfortable.

When he walks out, he finds Felix wandering aimlessly around the hall, looking absolutely no worse for the wear and wearing a soft gray sweatshirt. Changbin remembers that Felix didn’t drink anything last night.

Felix flashes a grin at him. “Hey, Changbin.” His voice is deep, a little bit rusty.

“Hey,” Changbin says.

Felix’s sweatshirt sleeves are rolled up, and Changbin can see the dark circlet around his wrist. He’d forgotten that he’d done that, and the memory of him drawing on Felix’s skin hits him like a brick. The ink is only a little bit faded— the marker Changbin used must’ve been the long-lasting type— and it’s definitely not his best work.

“Nail polish remover works well on that,” Changbin blurts out, gesturing to Felix’s wrist. Hyunjin had carried around some of it all the time in high school.

Felix’s brow furrows, confused at the sudden suggestion. “Huh?” Then, he realizes what Changbin is talking about. “Wait, no, why’d I want to get rid of this?”

Changbin fidgets, tugs at his sleeves. “I did it while buzzed, it’s not my best work.”

“Shut up, it’s amazing,” Felix retorts. “Anyway, it’s not like an actual tattoo.”

Changbin smirks. There are too many legal guidelines around tattooing for that to ever happen. “Yeah, I’m not interested in having the police after me so soon into the semester.”

“You’re so talented, I bet they wouldn’t care,” Felix tells him, and Changbin feels something shift out of place. “Your soulmate’s so lucky.”

Changbin laughs, and it sounds awkward to his ears. That kind of thing had been said to him multiple times throughout his life, before people found out he was soulmateless. And Changbin isn’t like some of the other people he’s met; he doesn’t know how to break the news right away. So he just pulls his sleeves down a little further, says something about having to go to the library, and then gets the hell out of there before he can embarrass himself any further.

 

**[PAST]**

 

_“Perhaps we glamorize the idea of soulmates.”_

_~Another Take, 2002_

\---

They get the talk at the end of third grade.

To be honest, it’s horribly awkward, concepts about growing up that they don’t currently understand, and their third grade class giggles immaturely into their hands as the lady up front talks about _bodies_ and _puberty_.

Of course, she touches upon soulmates, and a lecture that Changbin had already thought pointless now becomes even worse. He listlessly turns his gaze out toward the window despite their teacher’s warning of less recess and extra homework if the students didn’t pay attention.

There’s a nudge on his side, and Hyunjin’s sliding a fold of paper into his hand.

Changbin grins, mood lifted, and opens the paper under the desk. _This is so boring_ , Hyunjin’s written.

_Don’t know what you’re talking about,_ Changbin responds, _I need to know this information to communicate with my soulmate_.

Hyunjin laughs, poorly disguising it as a cough.

The hired lady is talking about needing to be kind and respectful, and Hyunjin writes back, _Seungmin’s already called me a dummy two times._  

_Well, he’s not wrong._

_You’re so mean, we’re not friends anymore._

They get caught eventually, though, because they aren’t as discreet as they think, and their teacher looks like she’s about to kill them before she realizes that it’s Changbin. Then, she just stutters something about paying attention before making a hasty exit, and it makes Hyunjin somberly pocket the paper and Changbin wish she’d just yelled at the two of them.

Anything’s better than pity. Anything’s better than this loaded silence.

There are about one or two soulmateless people in each grade in any given school, and while kids aren’t as mean as movies make them out to be, they’re not angels, either. Changbin never gets mocked in so many words about his lack of a soulmate, but as he grows up, the smaller things happen more and more often, especially when fourth grade starts.

“What’s your soulmate’s name?” the girl across from him, Yeri, asks, when they’re doing icebreaker things on the first day of school.

“I don’t have one,” Changbin answers, blunt.

He’ll learn later to say something else; to avoid, to lie, but right now he’s still young.

Yeri’s eyes widen, and she whispers, “Is it because they’re dead?”

“ _Yeri_ , you can’t just _ask_ stuff like that,” her friend hisses, from where she’s been listening in on their conversation. Yeri looks ashamed. Changbin stares at the next question on the sheet and asks Yeri where she got her pencil from; she doesn’t answer, and the two of them don’t speak for the rest of class. The ice between them thickens.

It’s fine. Girls are weird, anyway.

And then there’s that one day at recess when a bunch of guys have taken over the monkey bars— their class has this unspoken competition going, where the girls try to get to the bars before the guys and vice versa.

Changbin loves the monkey bars, can swing bar to bar three at a time like he’s afloat, and this guy, Jeonghan, yells, “How do you do that?”

“Maybe he’s so light because he doesn’t have a soul!” another boy, Taehyuck, says back.

On a certain level, it’s funny. Changbin laughs, and about half of the others laugh, but then there’s also a few guys saying “shut _up_ , you idiot.” A teacher gets called over, and Taehyuck has to sit out for the rest of recess. Changbin hands him half of his orange at lunch to tell Taehyuck it’s okay. Taehyuck mumbles a halfhearted sorry.

No one punches him, or is explicitly cruel, but if Changbin were a piece of paper, he’d have little crinkles and cuts all over him where careless hands have squeezed too hard.

Perhaps the greatest insult, however, comes from his fourth-grade teacher.

It’s picture day, and Changbin’s wearing his favorite shirt, a black tee with an electric blue guitar on the front, a little frayed from too many machine wash cycles. It’s a lot better than the buttoned and cuffed monstrosity his mom wanted to put him in.

“Changbin,” his teacher says, when it’s time for the class photo. “Put your arms behind your back.”

The teacher doesn’t mean it the way it’s taken— Changbin’s arms are dangling at his sides, and from a photographic perspective, it’s awkward and looks bad. But all Changbin can think of is how all of his other classmates’ arms have colors and marks on them, and Changbin wants to cry.

He doesn’t, though.

Mr. Moon is new and isn’t the best with kids. During fourth grade, he will never be able to get Changbin to open up to him. Changbin is quiet and respectful, but he never looks Mr. Moon in the eye, and Mr. Moon never quite figures out what he did wrong.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

Changbin is taking Intro to Painting, and suffice to say, he’s terrified.

It feels a little bit like getting taken out of a pond and thrown into the ocean. The people in the class are mostly freshmen and sophomores— one can tell who the freshmen are by the confused looks on their faces— and they’re all artists.

Back in his hometown, Changbin might’ve been one of the best, but here, he’s just one of many, a dime a dozen.

Changbin tugs at the strings on his smock. His station is set up next to a girl who paints with a steady hand despite looking about to keel over from anxiety and a boy with a closed expression; a freshman and a sophomore, respectively. The girl is currently drawing a scene from autumn, and looking at it, Changbin can almost feel the breeze rustling the leaves on the ground.

The two of them have talked before. Her name is Jiyun, and she has square-rimmed glasses and a mandala on the back of her hand, vibrantly colored and impossibly intricate. Changbin wonders if it’s a tattoo, if she did it herself or if her soulmate got it.

“I love your painting,” she says now. Their first assignment is to draw anything so that the professor can get a feel for their preferred style and current ability. Changbin’s copied out his 4419 drawing from his sketchbook.

“Thanks,” he says, not sure if she’s just saying it to humor him. “I like yours, too.”

“Eh, it’s kind of boring compared to yours, though. Maybe I should add a bazooka in the middle of it? Might make it more interesting.”

“Just, a random bazooka?” he asks, with a half-laugh, and she nods, grinning. “I think it’s good as it is, though. You like doing landscapes?”

“Eh, yeah, it’s kind of my thing,” she says. “I have this tiny online shop where I sell them, crap to put in your living room and whatever.”

She has a shop, and Changbin realizes that even innocent conversations here have teeth. Jiyun isn’t even trying to one-up him, and she already has. But Changbin gets that this is something he’s going to have to deal with here.

“I’d buy that, even half-finished,” he says. “I wish it were autumn, it’s way too hot.”

“Oh yeah, definitely, this is like, my pipe dream. But I still really wish I’d come up with yours, you know? I miss my best friend from home.”

And so, when Changbin sets up his easel on Wednesdays and Fridays, he usually ends up talking to Jiyun for a few minutes. She’s nice, stuttering over her words from time to time, and she’s got a bunch of words on her wrists from her soulmate. Jiyun is talented in a completely different way than he is, and there’s a certain ease to their conversation, despite the competitive atmosphere.

Most of the time they don’t talk, though. They’re working.

The boy next to him, Changbin hasn’t talked to that much at all. It’s not that he’s intimidating, although the way he draws is, all bold and polished— it’s obvious that he’s currently got more technique than Changbin does. His name is Minho, and the first time Changbin talks to him is when his bracelet slips up his wrist on Friday.

“Oh,” Changbin says, to himself.

It’s faded, and smudged, but Changbin can recognize it anywhere. On Minho’s wrist is a circlet made up of a music staff, surrounded by vines. A heavy bracelet had originally covered it up, gold gilding chipping off to reveal the nickel underneath.

Minho looks up, and catches Changbin staring.

Changbin immediately makes the connections. Felix has a roommate named Minho, and he said in the elevator that they’ve talked before. Minho the roommate must also be Felix’s soulmate, although Changbin is fairly certain that Felix hadn’t said anything about _that_.

“Uh,” Changbin says lamely. “I just— I’m—”

“You’re Changbin,” Minho says softly. “The one that Felix told me about.”

“Yeah, probably. And you’re Felix’s, um, roommate.” _Soulmate_.

Changbin isn’t in any place to judge, but he thinks of Felix’s bare arms, about the fact he’d never explicitly said Minho was his soulmate; he thinks about the fact Minho’s wearing a bracelet to cover up Changbin’s design, about how Minho is currently looking at him with a certain wariness that makes Changbin want to hide, and wonders if Felix and Minho are okay.

“Yeah,” Minho says. He slides the bracelet off, turns his wrist back and forth. “Felix really liked this, you know? He still hasn’t washed it off.”

Jiyun is looking at the two of them curiously, and Changbin is saved from having to respond by their professor’s voice booming up from the front of the room.

“Alright,” she says. “Wherever you are with your painting, we’re going to move on!”

Changbin and Jiyun exchange panicked looks— she never gave them a deadline, and so neither of them are completely ready— but too late now. Changbin’s fingers close around the fabric of his smock and squeezes.

“The next assignment you guys have,” the professor says, voice clear, “is to draw someone around you. It can be a roommate, a friend— hell, it can be a random person in the dining hall, if you can get away with it. Grades and notes will be up on this project by the end of the weekend. You have thirty minutes to finish up. Go.”

And so the conversation with Minho is dropped as Changbin frantically adds the finishing touches up on his painting, trying to make it as presentable as possible. He turns it in at the end of class with the sinking knowledge that it wasn’t his best, and tries to put that sobering thought out of his mind.

“Wow,” Jiyun says, when they walk out. “A little heads-up next time, maybe?”

“I know, right?” Changbin mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I’m gonna fail, probably.” Jiyun is just saying that— she’d been just about done anyway, when their professor had called time, but Changbin won’t call her out. “Whatever. Who are you gonna draw for the next project?”

“Um…” Changbin says. “My roommate, maybe?”

“That’s a good call. I’m pretty sure my roommate hates me, though, so I guess I gotta find someone different,” she sighs. “Hey, how likely do you think I could get away with her dining hall suggestion?”

Changbin jokes, “It isn’t stalking if the other person never finds out.”

She grins. “I’m pretty sure that’s the exact definition of stalking, but thank you.” She hesitates for a second, then resolutely spins on her heel. “I’ll see you later, Changbin. Good luck on your project.”

She hoists her bag up over her shoulder and walks in the other direction. Changbin’s mouth twists, thinking. He’d told Jiyun that he might draw his roommates just because he needed something to respond with, but it’s actually a pretty good idea.

\---

It is not a good idea.

“Jisung, can I draw you for a project?”

At this, Jisung raises his head off his textbook, taking out his earbuds. “I’m sorry, what?” he yawns. “I was… studying.”

“Right,” Changbin says, raising his eyebrows.

“Don’t judge me, I _was_ ,” Jisung whines. “What was your question, though?”

“I have a class assignment to draw someone around me, and I just…” Jisung’s expression turns apologetic, and Changbin already knows the answer. “Nevermind, forget I asked.”

“Dude, I’m really sorry,” Jisung says. “But someone else is already drawing me.”

“It’s fine.” Changbin curses himself out for not asking sooner, and in the back of his mind, wonders who’s drawing Jisung.

Chan is sitting against the wall, eyes half closed. Changbin considers asking Chan, but he doesn’t feel completely comfortable asking him for favors, and their schedules are completely unsynced. The only time Changbin could draw him would be when Chan were asleep, and while Chan’s sleeping face isn’t unattractive by any means, that’s not an option Changbin finds particularly appealing.

“What’s this about drawing someone?” Chan asks.

“Ah, nothing,” Changbin says quickly. “Apparently, Jisung is in high demand, and also apparently, the universe is not on my side.”

Later, when Chan has left the room, and Jisung has given up on his textbook and is doodling in the margins of his notebooks, Changbin asks, “Hey, Jisung, who’s drawing you?”

“Oh,” Jisung says. “Do you know Felix’s roommate?”

“... Minho?”

“Yeah, Minho.”

Changbin doesn’t know why he’s so surprised, but he kind of is. He hadn’t known that Minho and Jisung were friends— actually, the fact they knew each other should be a given, as Jisung’s already befriended half of campus, including the squirrels and the tree outside the window; Minho, with his proximity, didn’t stand a chance.

“Yeah, I know Minho,” Changbin says. “He’s a really good artist.”

“Yeah, I could gather that just from the way he talked.”

Changbin smirks. “He might _actually_ be able to make you look good.”

“Dude, _harsh_ ,” Jisung says, laughing. He’s quiet for a moment before he tacks on, “I’m really sorry, though. I didn’t know you two were in the same class…”

“Seriously, you’re fine,” Changbin says, because Jisung looks guilty. And it isn’t like there’s a rule in the roommate code that says _exclusive homework muses_ or anything, so that’s completely unfounded. “I’ll figure something out.”

Jisung gives him a small smile, and Changbin sighs. Maybe he could draw Hyunjin; he’s all the way over on the other side of the Pacific, but Changbin’s drawn Hyunjin enough times that he knows his face better than the back of his hand. Also, Hyunjin is handsome enough that it’d probably earn him some subconscious extra points, too.

For some reason, though, it feels like the easy way out, and Changbin doesn’t like that.

 

**[PAST]**

 

The silver lining of the whole soulmate scenario is that there are a lot of art supplies.  

It starts with pens. They’ve got pens designed especially for skin; long-lasting ones, quick-fading ones, pens with smelly ink, pens that change color as they write. Then they’re copied by marker companies, crayon companies, pencil companies, until the shelves of nearby convenience stores bursts with colors in every shade of the rainbow.

And Changbin likes art. He’s got a natural affinity for it, not the kind of talent that makes him a genius, not the kind of talent that makes him a kid Picasso, but a sort of talent like a Redwood seed, something with the potential that— if he worked at it— could grow into something tall and sprawling and huge.

Changbin, of course, doesn’t know that. He just likes to draw.

Starting fourth grade, he goes to the community center after school, because his mom’s work hours have been ramped up and she can’t have him home alone. He likes the community center okay, even if it doesn’t have Hyunjin, because they’ve got snacks and a playground and an art table with a bunch of stubby crayons and pens that have a half chance of being completely devoid of ink.

It’s also where he meets Kim Woojin.

(“Woojin’s really cool,” Changbin tells Hyunjin, one afternoon.

“Like, Captain America cool?”

Changbin scoffs. “No one’s as cool as Captain America.”

“Point,” Hyunjin says. “Ugh, I wish I could go to the center with you. My mom always makes me do my homework as soon as I come home.”)

Woojin is in seventh grade, and he’s admirable for that alone. But he’s also really good at art, enough that the elementary schoolers are always asking him to draw things for them, and Changbin sometimes sneaks looks over at his drawings to try and copy them on his own paper. It never looks as good as Woojin’s.

One day, Woojin is drawing when one of the new counselors comes over.

“Wow, you’re so good at drawing!” she says, looking at his half-finished bear.

Her tone isn’t patronizing at all; it’s genuinely shocked. That’s how good Woojin is, even at twelve years old. “Thank you,” Woojin says, abashed.

“Your soulmate is so lucky.”

In mainstream culture, this is a high compliment. But the pleased smile drops off Woojin’s face, and a resigned one replaces it. “Thank you again, but I don’t have one.”

At this, Changbin drops his marker, and it rolls on the floor with a clatter before he hastily picks it back up, furiously blushing. The counselor has no idea how to respond, and she mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like _that’s okay_ before she walks off.

Changbin chalks it up to the shock when he blurts out, “I don’t have a soulmate, either.”

Later that night, Changbin will cringe, because (1) that makes it very clear that Changbin was eavesdropping, and (2) who just _says_ that kind of thing?

But at that moment, if Woojin is weirded out, he doesn’t show it. “Really?” Woojin says. “Whoa, I’ve never actually met somebody else who didn’t have a soulmate.”

Changbin looks down. “Me either.”

“Well, I mean, first time for everything. Your name is Changbin, right?”

“Yeah. And you’re Woojin, but you already know that.” Woojin grins, and Changbin is disproportionately proud. “How do you draw that well?”

Woojin scratches his neck, embarrassed. “Uh— I don’t know.”

Perhaps because of the fact he really doesn’t know how to explain, he ends up taking a look at what Changbin is drawing, which is what’s supposed to be a solar system. Changbin has about three planet designs that he’s confident in, but he doesn’t like the way his shooting stars look. He’s working on that.

“You’re really good, too,” Woojin says, raising his eyebrows. “Do you take art classes?”

Changbin shakes his head. “No, I got a bunch of these off the Internet.”

“You shouldn’t ask me how I draw that well when you’re so good yourself.”

And that’s how it begins. Changbin and Woojin aren’t exactly friends, at least not the way Changbin and Hyunjin are. The three-year grade gap makes that difficult, especially at this age. It’s more like they’re distant brothers. Changbin’s admiration of Woojin is almost starry-eyed, and Woojin’s kindness toward him is a very specific type of fond, hair-ruffling and enthusiastic smiles.

Over the course of the year, the art table becomes his center of gravity. Changbin learns words like _shadow_ and _proportion_ , and he becomes finicky with the details, stubborn about getting them right. Woojin is still miles ahead of him in terms of skill, but he’s a figure in the distance that Changbin can follow.

One day, when Woojin is sick, a third-grade girl asks Changbin, “Whoa, how do you _draw_ those?”

Her voice is loud, a voice that’s gotten her yelled at plenty of times by long-suffering teachers. Her name is Aecha, and she has band-aids on her knees and a demanding expression on her face.

Changbin had been drawing these stars, filling them in with complex designs. He says, unsure, “I just do?”

“That doesn’t help,” she tells him, rolling her eyes, and then bounces on the soles of her light-up shoes. “But could you draw that on my arm?”

“Your arm?” Changbin says dumbly. She squints at it, impatient.

“Yeah. My soulmate is sad right now cause his parents yelled at him, and he likes stars.”

_Ew, love_ , Changbin thinks internally. “What colors do you want it?” he says out loud.

She purses her lips, thinking. “Um, purple and black.”

So Changbin takes her arm, marked up with scribbles and past conversations, and pushes the sleeve up to her elbow. He takes out two purple and black markers that aren’t exceedingly dried out, and then he carefully copies the design on her skin. He isn’t used to drawing on people, so the curved planes of her arm make his hand a little unsure, but otherwise, it turns out well.

“Thank you,” she beams.

He gets asked to draw on people seven times throughout fourth grade, and he complies each time. The next year, Woojin stops coming to the community center, and Changbin misses him. Woojin fades from his mind eventually, but memories have a certain habit of resurfacing, and Changbin will remember him with a mixture of fondness and nostalgia whenever that happens.

\---

In the winter of fifth grade, the snow comes down fast and thick and blankets the streets in heavy sheets of white. Hyunjin and Changbin make games out of sliding down miniature snow mountains and building forts out of the cold crystals, because, by logic, it should work like sand. It’s a good time.

“Christmas is tomorrow!” Hyunjin crows, throwing a handful of snow in the air.

The snow lands on Changbin’s shirt and in his pants, and Changbin throws a handful of snow at Hyunjin in retaliation.

“Oh, it is _on_ ,” Hyunjin says, and scoops up a mound in his glove.

It’s not packing snow, so it’s not a snowball fight, just them hurling handfuls of snow at each other until it gets under Changbin’s shirt and makes the pom-pom on Hyunjin’s hat all soggy, and then the two of them head inside to warm up their freezing faces.

Later that night, their families eat dinner together. Changbin slurps down his ramen and ignores the burning in his mouth. It’s a festive mood, taxes and stress out of mind for the time being, adults too preoccupied with talking to notice Hyunjin and Changbin taking turns sneaking vegetables into Hyunjin’s dog’s mouth.

Until they do. “Hyunjin, Changbin, eat your carrots,” Changbin’s mom says.

Hyunjin smiles angelically. “Sorry, Mrs. Seo, it’s the holidays.”

She clucks her tongue disapprovingly, even though she likes Hyunjin too much to actually be mad. “Tell that to Santa when he doesn’t give you a present tomorrow.”

And Changbin says, “Santa isn’t real.”

That myth had been thoroughly debunked for him and Hyunjin last year by a couple of loudmouth sixth grade boys. A flash of sadness passes over his mom’s face that Changbin doesn’t quite grasp, and she says, “Maybe he is.”

Hyunjin shakes his head. “He can’t be. If someone went around the world that fast in one night, they’d explode. Jaemin told that to me a few weeks ago.”

“Alright, alright, you kids know everything,” Changbin’s dad says, and lays a hand on her shoulder. “What movie do you want to watch afterward?”

Hyunjin and Changbin are tired, but they’re also overexcited— Santa might not be real, but presents certainly were— and neither of them fall asleep until around midnight. At three, Hyunjin’s shaking him awake.

“Changbin!” he shout-whispers. “It’s Christmas!”

Changbin quickly rubs the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. He’d been dreaming, strangely enough, of mosquitos. The two of them tiptoe down the stairs and carefully peel the tape off the wrapped boxes.

Hyunjin gets candy and a video game, and Changbin— Changbin gets these markers. They’re not the regular kind of markers, though; they’ve got a gold logo emblazoned on the front of the package and look like the kind of thing he sees on television.

“Whoa,” Hyunjin says, scooting over. “Those are pretty cool.”

Changbin takes one pen out of the pack, holding it up to the light. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Hyunjin takes the pen out of his hand, and Changbin immediately panics, says, “If you break it, I’ll kick your butt.”

“I won’t, don’t worry,” Hyunjin promises. “And you couldn’t kick my butt if you tried.”

Changbin, stupidly, feels nervous as Hyunjin uncaps it and takes a look, enough that he can’t even come up with a retort. Changbin’s been drawing a lot more lately, doing it whenever he can, looking up tutorials on youtube and trying to copy things he sees off Google Images.

Hyunjin hands it back, and Changbin slips it back into the package before sealing it.

They sleep for another four hours before they get up, telling their parents _Merry Christmas_ and blowing noisemakers. It’s fun; Changbin trades Hyunjin three Pokemon cards for some of his candy, and they test out Hyunjin’s new video game.

When Hyunjin finally has to return to his actual home, Changbin says to his mom, “Thank you so much for the pens.”

“It wasn’t me,” she tells him, and jerks a thumb at his dad. “It was him.”

Changbin’s surprised, because Changbin thought that his dad didn’t really like his hobby. And maybe he doesn’t, but Changbin is grateful anyway, and goes to give his dad a hug and mumbles a thanks. Their family has never been particularly affectionate, and at age ten, it’s even more awkward.

The pens glide over the page in vibrant reds and blues and greens, and Changbin is too afraid to use them on a daily basis, so he reserves them for special occasions. On Hyunjin’s birthday, along with his other birthday present, Changbin takes his pens out and draws a crown on Hyunjin’s skin in red and gold.

A message forms on the other arm, under a thread of forgotten birthday wishes and a running joke of Seungmin’s inability to be a good soulmate. _Whoa, that’s so cool!_

Hyunjin writes back in cheap ballpoint: _That was my friend, Changbin._

Out loud, Hyunjin says, “Dude, you should get people to pay money for this.”

Hyunjin compliments him about once in a blue moon, so Changbin takes it.

Changbin doesn’t really consider himself to be an artist. But he draws on Hyunjin’s skin more often, compliments appearing on the other arm, and a month before fifth grade ends and he goes to middle school, his art teacher calls him into her office.

“Changbin, you’re really talented,” she says. “There’s a regional competition for grades K-12, with two hundred dollars as the first prize… I think you should enter it. I’ll give you extra credit if you do.”

And so Changbin does, even if this is blatant favoritism. Mrs. Kim is someone who loves the word _talent_ , who prizes this above hard work, but because Changbin’s effort is expended behind the scenes he gets her love anyway.

He doesn’t expect first place, but he wins second, and when he gets the fifty dollars, something inside of him opens. He loves art, but this is the first time he understands that he could go somewhere with it. He takes a step down a rocky road that day, and by the time anyone, including himself, realizes the direction he’s gone, he’s too far into the woods to stop.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

On Sunday, Changbin heads over to the art studio, sets his stuff in a small room with light streaming through the window, and takes out his tablet.

He’d gotten a B on his first project. Professor Lee’s teaching style might come off as eccentric and unorganized, but her notes are anything but, two dense paragraphs of criticism sandwiched between one-sentence compliments. It stings a little, but that’s the point. He isn’t good here.

Changbin reads through her notes and tries to put her advice to use on a warm-up piece, but the thought of finding someone to draw looms over his mind, and he ends up leaving the studio early. He’s got more classes tomorrow. Changbin is more than aware that his current life probably isn’t the pinnacle of college experience, but that’s okay. He doesn’t need it to be.

He comes back to find Felix out in the hall, eating Skittles and laughing with Minho. They look comfortable around each other, and it makes Changbin give up on trying to concretely evaluate their relationship. Maybe they’re just weird. Who knows?

Felix catches sight of Changbin and jumps to his feet. “Hey,” he says. “Why are we constantly running into each other in the hall?”

“It’s not always in the hall.” Although Felix has a point; the majority of their interactions are unintentional. “We got stuck in an elevator, too.”

Minho says, “Oh, Felix told me about that. Sounds fun.” He’s got a polite, if slightly frozen, smile on his face, and Changbin wonders if he’s the only one who notices that. “I have to go to the bathroom. Good luck on your project, Changbin.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets before walking down the hallway. Changbin’s eyes linger on his back, wondering why Minho’s words sounded so unnatural.

Felix nudges him. “Do you want Skittles?”

“Sure,” Changbin says, tearing his gaze away.

Felix tears the packet open wider and pours some of the candies into Changbin’s hand, the majority of which are purple. “Sorry, I hate the grape ones. Minho usually eats those. What’s that project he’s talking about, anyway?”

Changbin’s mouth twists. “We have to draw somebody.”

“Oh, _right_ , duh, I forgot. You and Minho are in the same class. Who are you drawing, then?”

“See, that’s kind of a problem. I was going to draw Jisung, my roommate, but then it turns out Minho’s drawing him. So yeah. I have no idea.”

“That’s rough. Good luck, man.”

Felix sounds mildly expectant, though, and suddenly, Changbin realizes that he could draw _Felix_. It’s the obvious option, even if he doesn’t know Felix as well as Jisung, but for some reason, the idea doesn’t sit too well with him. He thinks it might stem from the fact that Felix and Minho are soulmates; it strangely makes Changbin feel like he’s taking a step closer to the edge of a precipice. But that’s irrational, and he this project is mandatory.

“Hey, Felix,” Changbin says, slowly. “Would you mind if I drew you?”

Felix’s eyes are bright, luminous. “I mean, if it works.”

“What do you mean? You’re doing me a huge favor,” Changbin says. Relief floods his systems, although it’s tinged with a new set of anxieties. “When are you free?”

“Is tomorrow afternoon at six okay? My shift at Tik Tok ends at that time.”

Changbin’s got a class until five-thirty; if he runs, he’ll make it. He doesn’t like that he’s going to be taking up Felix’s time, and without anything in return— he knows that some people in his class are going to pay someone to stand still for hours on end.

“Yeah, that works,” Changbin says. “Thank you, again. It’ll only take an hour or so.”

“Dude, you’re welcome, I’m excited to see this. Minho says you’re really good.”

The words make Changbin feel warm, but he tries not to show it. An idea is already forming in his mind of what he wants to draw, and as Felix is waving goodbye, Changbin says, “Bring your violin along.”

Felix knits his brow in confusion, but he nods, intrigued. Only an hour later, after Changbin is making rough sketches of bookshelves and sheet music, does it occur to him that Minho never came back from the bathroom.

\---

The next day, Changbin realizes that he’d never established a meeting location with Felix, and proceeds to curse out his own incompetence while he searches up where Tik Tok is. It takes him awhile; Changbin isn’t too good with directions.

He finds it ten minutes to six and pushes open the door. Tik Tok is an amalgamation of a large study room and a coffee shop, and Felix is at the counter ringing people up, with a brass nametag that reads _FELIX_ and a soft black scarf that dangles down to the waist of his uniform.

Felix spots Changbin, waves, and mouths _almost done_ at him, and Changbin takes a seat at one of the open tables and tries to highlight half of a page of textbook. A few minutes later, he hears the chair across from him scrape away from the table and looks up to see Felix, apron discarded but still wearing the scarf, hands braced against the tabletop.

“Hey,” Felix greets. “Shift’s over. Sorry I didn’t really tell you where to meet up.”

“It’s fine, I figured it out,” Changbin says, and bites back a statement about how Felix doesn’t need to apologize when he’s currently saving Changbin’s ass. “I’ve never been to Tik Tok. It’s nice.”

“Mm, yeah, the atmosphere’s okay,” Felix says. “But the drinks are all watery and overpriced. I’m really only here for the cash.”

“Isn’t that how most campus jobs work?”  

Felix grins. “Amen.” He fishes a brown paper package from his pocket. “You want a cake, though? I have three of them in here.”

One of the unspoken rules that Changbin operates by is to never decline free food, but he’s starting to realize that Felix has a natural generosity that’s a little dangerous.

“I’m good,” Changbin says. “I ate a sandwich before I came here.”

Felix shrugs, and pops a bite into his mouth. “That’s cool. By the way, you should give me your number. In case of future meetups.”

Changbin nods. Felix hands over his phone, and Changbin keys his number in. Felix’s contact list is so long that the scroll bar is nonexistently tiny. His homescreen is a picture of him dabbing with the violin, and Changbin fights back the urge to laugh.

“What?” Felix demands.

“Nothing— your homescreen.”

“Don’t judge,” Felix says, screwing up his face. “Also, my violin— the actual one, not the one I’m dabbing with — is in the back room. I’ll go get that, and then we can go.”

Changbin had nearly forgotten about his request, which probably makes him a terrible artist, but he thinks he’s okay with that. The two of them walk over to Building E and settle into one of the studios at the far end of the hall, where hopefully not many other people will be disturbed by the music that will inevitably emit from their room.

Felix settles himself against the all, and asks, “What’s the game plan?”

“Well,” Changbin says, and hates how unsure his voice comes out. Felix’s eyes are round, pliant, and not for the first time, Changbin internally curses out their professor for this assignment. “Just...  take out your violin?”

It feels like getting stuck in the elevator all over again.

“Can do,” Felix says, and complies.

“And then just put it up on your shoulder. With the bow on the, um, strings and stuff.”

Felix rolls his eyes, amused. “So like, if I were in playing position.”

“Yes. Like that.” Felix lifts the bow up and sets it on the strings, and Changbin can tell from the worn fit of the violin against his shoulder and the natural curve of his wrist that Felix has been practicing for years. “Like… you’re in the middle of a song.”

“It’s _really_ weird standing like this and not actually making music.”

Changbin winces. “Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re good,” Felix says, and his laugh makes the violin rumble. “I’ve just never done anything like this, that’s all.”

Changbin nods, and then he takes out his sketchpad and squats to look at Felix from various angles, wondering what the best position to draw him in would be.

At some point Felix subconsciously starts biting his lip, and Changbin is about to ask him to stop before he realizes that it makes Felix look more _real._ It’s the same way with how the violin makes his collar askew, neckline crinkling to reveal collarbone. Why is Changbin the one who feels like he’s exposed when Felix is the one modeling?

“I swear it’ll only be a couple more minutes,” Changbin mumbles.

“I told you, you’re fine,” Felix says, although he sounds tired. “This is fine.”

No matter Felix’s assurances, the guilt makes Changbin draw faster than normal, and he lets out a sigh of relief when he says, “Alright, done.”

Felix lowers the violin, posture relaxing. “That was pretty fast,” he says. “Minho’s made people stand for hours on end at a time.”

Changbin suddenly remembers his roommate, and how Minho’s drawing him. “Sucks for Jisung. He’s really great, but I don’t think he knows how to stand still.”

“I hope Minho knows what he’s getting into, then,” Felix laughs. He stretches, cracking his fingers, the pop of his bones loud and unapologetic. “Hey, Changbin, could you show me your sketches?”

Changbin freezes. “They’re really bad…”

“For some reason, I highly doubt that.”

“They are. First drafts always are. You might not agree to let me draw you after you see them.”

“I promise I won’t judge.”

Changbin wants to argue more, but he hands Felix his sketchbook as if bewitched, letting Felix see the rough edges and placement lines and smudges of graphite. Changbin knows that it’s nowhere near good, but Felix seems impressed nonetheless, eyes wide and hands gentle around the sketchbook like it’s something precious.

“You’re not even trying and this is so good,” Felix says.

“I’m pretty sure you’re not gray and white,” Changbin says. “I’m pretty sure you don’t have a line through the middle of your face.”

“You know what,” Felix says. “You know what, fine? I’ll show you how I really look, then. Can I add a small drawing on here?”

And Changbin is a little afraid, but he’s also curious. He hands Felix the pencil, and Felix lifts the sketchbook up so it’s out of Changbin’s sight, tongue poking out of his mouth as he draws. He hands it back to Changbin a minute later, and Changbin’s eyes travel to Felix’s sketch, a little stick figure doodle in the corner of the page with a violin jammed into the neck. The head is too big, and the arms and legs are thin sticks.

“See,” Felix says, faux-proud. “ _This_ is me.”

The stiffness melts away, and Changbin laughs. “I didn’t know you played the lollipop.”

“My stick figure alter-ego does,” Felix says. “I should switch majors, man. My stuff should be in a _museum_.”

“Yeah, good thing Picasso’s dead, because you’d put him out of commission.”

“I know, right?” Felix says, expression like the sun. “Okay, in all seriousness, you can erase that. I feel like I just graffitied a shrine.”

“Alright,” Changbin says, although he has no plans to rid Felix’s drawing.

At this point, it’s around seven, and Felix says, almost nervously, “Want to grab dinner together at the dining hall?”

It’s strange. Getting dinner with Felix would entail a half hour or so that might potentially be filled with awkwardness, but for some reason, Changbin is no longer afraid.

“Sure,” Changbin says, and that’s that.

\---

“Oh yeah,” Jisung says, later, when Changbin asks how modeling for Minho is going. “I’m actually terrible. It’s kind of funny.”

And then he promptly collapses back on the floor.

It might only be a couple weeks into the semester, but Mondays are terrible nonetheless. Their dorm has an aura of exhaustion; Changbin tiredly sketching Felix, Chan on his laptop tapping keys; Jisung with his back to the wall with a pile of crumpled papers around him.

“My butt hurts,” Jisung says, a little while later.

Changbin looks up. “There’s furniture right next to you.”

Jisung idly picks up one of the paper balls and throws it up in the air. “But I’m not _allowed_ to be physically comfortable when I have writer’s block.”

Changbin doesn’t understand writer’s block, but he understands creativity jams, and figures it’s painful no matter the medium. “I’m sorry, man,” he says. “How long do those last for you?”

“Um, well, one time it lasted about a year, but I’m hoping that’s not the case. I think it’s just that I’ve been at this for too long? This isn’t really a topic that I’m good with.”

“What’s the topic?”

“Soulmates, actually.”

Which doesn’t make sense to Changbin at all, because Jisung is constantly writing on his arm. Maybe it’s not as Jisung makes it seem, though.

Changbin wonders if anyone in this building has a _normal_ love life. Actually, scratch that— he knows that Chan does. He’s got a girlfriend over in America that’s studying medicine, and they’re going to meet up when they graduate.

Truthfully, Changbin envies that kind of certainty.

“Sorry, can’t help you there.” Changbin thinks, _for multiple reasons_.

“You’re completely useless,” Jisung grumbles. “I’m filing for another roommate next year.”

Five minutes later, Jisung asks Chan for inspiration, which somehow turns into Jisung coercing Chan into playing his Soundcloud mixtapes. Jisung gets up and dances on the bed, dragging Changbin up on the mattress as well, and Changbin feels like he might get knocked over by the sheer force of Chan’s skill and also maybe by secondhand embarrassment. But it works; he feels lighter afterwards, even if he tells Jisung that his persuasion skills are from hell.

Jisung squeezes out five hundred words that he doesn’t particularly like after that and then calls it quits at midnight. Changbin stays up until he gets the precise sketch of Felix down on paper, which he’ll transpose to canvas at a later date. As he sleeps, his phone lights up with a notification from Hyunjin.

_Seungmin asked me to meet up_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy late birthday to jeongin!! 
> 
> no one asked but i will be spending valentine's day writing ch 3 and listening to broken compass bc 3racha is good for any holiday.


	3. broken compass

**[PRESENT]**

 

“Why are you freaking out?” Changbin asks. “Wait, more importantly, can you hear me?”

At present, Hyunjin’s a blur on the screen, his face a clump of pixels more handsome than any clump of pixels has any right to be. Some people have all the luck.

The difference between their timezones is objectively terrible; for Changbin, the sky’s starting to darken, while there’s a glare over at Hyunjin’s side from the late morning sunlight, creating the illusion that his face is burnt red.

“Yeah, I can hear you,” Hyunjin verifies. “This audio makes you sound like a ninety’s anime character, though.”

“You would say that,” Changbin mutters, peeved. The screen swirls with color as Hyunjin moves to a more comfortable position. “But you _crashed my phone_ with how much you spammed me last night.”

“Cut me some _slack_ , I’m nervous. I’ve never met Seungmin face to face.”

“You crashed my phone.”

“You’ve dropped it into the toilet like, _five times_ before. I’m just speeding up its death.”

“And _you’ve_ talked to Seungmin over text, spammed him at midnight, accidentally butt-dialed him, _purposely_ butt-dialed him, purposely butt-dialed him at _midnight_ —”

“ _Maybe_ , but that’s completely different.”

Hyunjin’s purposely being melodramatic; he’s the kind of person who makes jokes about his bruises to make them more manageable. Changbin also thinks that the acting might partially be for Changbin. Hyunjin won’t let himself talk about this stuff too seriously when Changbin doesn’t even have a soulmate.

Thinking about that feels like pouring peroxide on an open wound, so Changbin asks, “When’s the meeting?”

“Um, in about a week.” Hyunjin bites his lip. “He’s in California, too, a couple of miles away. There’s a Starbucks that’s about the same difference from both of our campuses.”

“Aw,” Changbin says, fake-vomiting. “You two are going to meet in the middle.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Hyunjin groans. “What if it like— what if it goes _wrong_?”

“You’ve embarrassed yourself plenty of times in front of him before,” Changbin says ruthlessly. “You have no face left to save.”

“Face— oh my god, what if he doesn’t like my face? Like, I know I’m photogenic, unlike you, but what if he— I dunno— thinks I’m ugly in real life?”

Changbin squints. “You better not _actually_ be worrying about this, you asshole—”

“What if I don’t know enough Day6 songs to meet his standards?”

Changbin disconnects the video call and only reconnects after a good five minutes have passed. He thinks that if _this_ is what love does to people, maybe he’s better off without a soulmate.

“Dude,” Changbin says, when they’re back on call. “Deep breaths. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be okay.”

“I can’t believe you hung up on me.”

“You were being insufferable.” A pause. “Well, even more so than usual.”

“Maybe you could come over to California,” Hyunjin muses. “And then you could, like, hide outside in a palm tree or something, and save me if anything goes wrong.”

“A—a _palm tree_? Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“Yeah, good point, you’re way too short to get up there.”

“I will actually kill you,” Changbin says, and wonders if he should disconnect again as Hyunjin breaks into laughter, all stress successfully forgotten for the time being in light of his attack at Changbin’s weak spot.

\---

Hyunjin isn’t the only one who’s stressed, though. College time seems to operate differently than it does in the rest of the world, warping and stretching to exaggerate deadlines and minimize everything else.

And Changbin can’t fall asleep. By now, it’s one in the morning, harsh red numbers blinking on the face of the clock.

He’s exhausted, but at the same time, his stomach is a pit of nerves, his mind a tornado of thoughts, work he hasn’t finished and doubts about how he’s going to survive here. Maybe his parents were right. Maybe he’s not supposed to be an artist.

“Changbin?”

Jisung’s sleepy voice cuts through the darkness, and Changbin starts.

“You awake?” Jisung’s voice grows louder. “Dude, I can hear you thinking from all the way over here. That’s not normal.”

Changbin sits up. “Shh,” he says, trying to whisper. “You’re going to wake up Chan.”

“Too late,” Chan says cheerfully.

Changbin sighs.  

Jisung pads over to the light switch and flips it on. Changbin rubs his eyes. Chan is already standing up, unabashedly wearing pajamas that have a rubber duck design.

“Why aren’t you guys _asleep_?” Changbin mutters. “Do you all have death wishes?”

“I could ask the exact same question to you, dude,” Jisung says. “I guess it’s just, like, one of those nights. It’s fine.”

Chan tugs a hoodie on. “Do you guys want to go buy ramen?”

Jisung and Changbin stare at him for a second. It’s a strange offer for their insomnia, a dollar store cure with only half chance of success.

Jisung is the one to speak first. “I’m up for that,” he says slowly. “I like ramen.”

Changbin asks, more dubious, “Why?”

“Me and Jackson used to do that sometimes when we couldn’t sleep.”

At this point, Changbin’s gathered that Chan used to have a whole other set of friends, and according to Jisung, nearly all of them graduated last year. Chan never seems to mind that Changbin is probably a poor substitute for his past roommates, but…

“Okay,” Changbin says. “I’m in, too.”

“Excellent. Last year, we nearly got mugged by a frat doing this one time, but Mark beat the shit out of them.” Chan grins. “Alright, let’s go find some pocket change, then.”

Changbin finds a few loose coins and a bunch of crumpled bills from the depths of his backpack; Jisung does the same; and then they set out.

Despite the slim possibility of getting mugged, there’s nothing really out of the ordinary about going to the convenience store. But the task becomes transformed at night; there’s kind of an uncertain quality to the dark. Changbin likes it, likes the way it covers him, but Jisung is afraid. He jumps at small noises and walks with a stiffness to his step, and Changbin stifles a laugh when Jisung screams at a snapped twig.

Jisung scowls at him. “Shut _up_ , it’s weird as hell being out this late.”

But they make it to the convenience store without dying, so that’s a win.

The three of them get cup noodles from the shelf and fill one each with water, shoving a bunch into a plastic bag for future dinners. The cashier, with a plastic tag with _BAMBAM_ written on it, knows Chan, and ends up accidentally roping Chan into a conversation that leaves Jisung and Changbin on their own.

Changbin stirs the ramen and stifles a yawn. He’s tired now— he probably won’t have any issue falling asleep when he gets back.

“It’s like the middle of the day for your friend in California, right?” Jisung asks idly.

It takes a second for Changbin to get off one train of thought and board another. “Oh, yeah,” he mumbles, and slurps a mouthful of noodles. “Timezones… crazy.”

“I’ve never been outside of Korea, so yeah, it’s a little weird to think about.”

Changbin’s been outside of Korea once, to California. There weren’t that many shells by the ocean, but if he stuck his hand into the tide at the right moment, he could sometimes get a tiny conch or spiral.

Changbin says, “He’s meeting his soulmate in T-minus one week, actually.”

“Oh,” Jisung says, and his voice shifts. “That’s incredible. First time?”

“Yeah. He’s freaked out, but I told him he shouldn’t worry.”

Jisung hums. “... Have you met your soulmate yet?”

Changbin considers lying, like he did the first time. But Jisung is no longer a stranger, and things said at night can be passed off as dreams, anyway.

“No,” he says. “I don’t have one.”

Jisung’s eyes widen. “Really?” he says. “Neither do I.”

Changbin chokes on his ramen. There’s a few anxious seconds when he feels like he can’t breathe; Jisung moves closer, to execute the Heimlich or possibly dial 119, and then Changbin finally swallows, says, “But you’re always… your arms…”

Jisung looks down.

“Yeah… I used to have one, but now I don’t.” Changbin tilts his head, and Jisung adds, “She got really sick a few years ago. I never even got to meet her before she died.”

The air takes on a heavy quality. Jisung’s voice is ragged. Changbin says, “I’m sorry,” and the words feel gapingly empty, but he doesn’t know what to add. “I bet she’d like… the stuff. You write on your skin.”  

Jisung turns away, and Changbin wonders if he’s crying. He might be. Jisung swipes his hand across his eyes, lets out a tiny sniff, and says, “I hope so. I just… never got out of the habit of doing it.”

In terms of social acceptance, it’s kind of terrible; they’re standing in the middle of a grimy convenience store while trying to hide the fact both of them might be a little bit broken.  

Soulmates tend to die in pairs; it’s hard for one soul to function without the help of the other. Changbin is glad Jisung is still here.

“Wow, I just like, totally killed the mood there,” Jisung says, with an awkward laugh. “Yikes.”

“You’re good,” Changbin says automatically, and wishes he were the sort of person who knew how to give comfort, how to hug someone in the middle of the chips aisle and not have it be completely awkward. “Yeah, I— never had a soulmate.”

“I can’t believe we’re roommates,” Jisung mutters. “Yo, fate, what the heck? What’re you trying to play at, here?”

Changbin laughs, then hides his face in his cup. He feels like he’s exposed, like he’s been stripped wide open. The noodles have been almost completely depleted, so now it’s just the soup and some chunks of soggy vegetable, and Changbin takes small sips of the broth and thinks, with a sense of mild exhaustion, that maybe fate does know what it’s doing. Changbin just wishes it had a more clear agenda.

 

**[PAST]**

 

The universe always liked to mess with Changbin, but it’s probably the worst in middle school. Just because it’s, well, middle school.

Changbin doesn’t know how Woojin managed to come off so self-assured. Back when Changbin was younger, he thought middle schoolers were basically adults, but now that he’s here, he just feels like a mess of awkward appendages and a body stuck in limbo.

He and Hyunjin no longer are in the same homeroom, and out of eight periods, Changbin sees Hyunjin twice a day. Their friendship is not a sad story, though, because Hyunjin still chooses Changbin over anyone else, and Hyunjin seems to magically create an extra seat for Changbin whenever needed, the two of them a package deal disguised as a single item.

That’s Hwang Hyunjin, for you.

He always comes to Changbin’s home after school, or Changbin to Hyunjin’s, and they toe off their shoes before grabbing whatever snack they can find and settling themselves at the coffee table to do homework; or, more accurately, pretend to do homework.

“Ugh,” Hyunjin says, smacking his head on the table. “I don’t get math.”

Changbin slides forward on his elbows. “Neither do I.”

“You liar, you’re already halfway down the worksheet. I need to steal your brain or something. Just for fifth period. I’ll give it back later.”

“Right, because that’s how it works,” Changbin says, and bites back a yell when Hyunjin headlocks him. He falls over and probably leaves a dent on the carpet.

“I wish you were in my math class,” Hyunjin sighs. “Then I could cheat off you.”

“You’d probably get caught,” Changbin says, “if you cheat anything like how you wink.”

Despite the fact Hyunjin is a failure at math, though, he’s good at all the other aspects of middle school— socialization, getting on the good side of the teachers, juggling extracurriculars— easily staying afloat while Changbin feels like he’s drowning.

So Changbin starts to spend his lunches in the art room. The middle school art room is a lot better than the one in their elementary school; there’s large cabinets filled with every manner of compass tools and paint, and the art teacher pretty much gives him free reign to use whatever as long as he puts it back afterward.

In middle school, art turns into something both priceless and dangerous.

The thing is, Changbin might’ve been good at art in elementary school, but it was something relative to his age. Now, Changbin becomes aware of his shortcomings, learning that it’s possible that he loves art more than art loves him back. Drawing feels like mining for gold in a shallow stream, or holding a block of uranium in his hands.

When he submits his piece into a nationwide competition, he doesn’t even make it past the second round. Changbin locks into his room and cries afterward, but then he looks up at the sky, picks himself off the ground, and flips to another page.

\---

There’s also the matter of his parents.

At some point, they stop being supportive of Changbin’s hobby and grow indifferent.  Then, they realize that it’s not just a hobby, and their indifference sours into anger.

Changbin’s making good grades, but unlike elementary school, there are times when he’ll let a B or C slip through, on tests he didn’t study enough for or homework he couldn’t be bothered to spend the time and energy required to complete.

“Changbin,” his mom snaps, one day. “Are you done with your math homework?”

Changbin is on his bed, drawing, and he looks up to find his mom standing in the doorway. “No,” he says. “I’ll go do it soon, though. I promise.”

“What about your history?” Another shake of his head. “Science?”

Changbin swallows. He’d just wanted to get this piece done; he was so close. And then he’d start on his homework, which he could stay up a little late to finish. But this is not something he can explain to his mom, whose forehead lines deepen with every passing word.

“Put the sketchbook away,” she says, voice low. “And go do it.”

Changbin is afraid of the look on her face. He does as is told.

Dinner is a somber affair. Changbin chokes down bites of rice, the atmosphere suffocating him. His mother’s expression is tired; his father’s, stern. When Changbin asks if he can be excused from the table, his dad says, “Sit down.”

Changbin sits back in his seat.

His father continues. “Your mother and I are worried about you.”

Changbin knows the drill; all he can do is let his father rant himself silent and try to hold back his tears for later.

“Your drawing shouldn’t interfere with your priorities. Your goal right now is to get good grades so that you can go to a good college, not anything else, you hear me?” his dad says, gathering steam. “You liked math so much in elementary school, but you’ve lost focus. I think you’ve forgotten how to be disciplined. You’ve gotten lazy, son—”

Words crash into Changbin’s throat one after another, piling in his esophagus like a verbal car wreck. He keeps his eyes lowered, though, a resolute set to his mouth, and tells himself that if he cries now, he will never forgive himself. His father continues talking, words growing more acidic with every passing second, and Changbin teeters between listening so that he won’t get caught and tuning out so he won’t hurt anymore.

“Look at me,” his father says. His voice is commanding. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Changbin bites out.

“You don’t seem to mean it.”

Changbin grits his teeth, unsure of how he could _possibly_ sound like he could mean it when this was the current scenario. He whispers, “I understand.”

“Let him off, now,” his mom says, voice thin.

His dad doesn’t assent, but he stays silent, and Changbin takes this as a cue to go to his room, eyes burning, tears pooling at the bottoms of his scleras. He takes his markers and stashes them deep inside his drawer, then shoves his sketchbook into the crevice between the bedframe and the mattress.

His mom comes in a few hours later. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Changbin closes his puffy eyes and pretends he’s asleep.

He never really stops, drawing. He just gets better at hiding it. He draws at school and does his homework when he’s around his parents and takes out his sketchbook in the middle of the night. He learns what to say not to get yelled at, and it works; his parents don’t lecture him anymore.

The discrepancy between who they think he is and who he actually is widens with every passing day, but it’s the only way their household won’t crumble to pieces.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

Changbin is here now, though.

And he needs to prove that he’s worthy of being here, even if it requires him texting. Changbin likes to operate as face-to-face as possible, telephone if needed, but…

He knows most people text. So he stares down with slight trepidation at the contact labeled _Felix_ , turning his cracked phone in his hands. At this point, Changbin has the entire pencil sketch of Felix down, but he needs to see the way light hits him, how his colors mesh with the rest of the room.

**Me:** Hey, Felix, are you free today?

He presses send. And then, ten minutes later, Felix calls him.

Sometimes the universe is funny that way.

“Hey,” Felix says, Australian accent exacerbated over the line, tinny and endearing. “I’m eating cereal and composing, but if you need to draw me, I’m up for that.”

Changbin exhales. “... You read my mind.”

“I’m magical that way,” Felix says cheerily. “Minho’s at one of his afternoon classes, so you could actually just come over to our dorm, if that works for you?”

“Uh— sure,” Changbin responds. “Be right over.”

(At this point, Changbin doesn’t even know what fraction of a friend Felix is anymore. Felix is weird that way, all blurry and uncategorizable.)

Changbin transports his art stuff over and attempts to rap on the door with his arms loaded. Felix opens the door, comments, “You know, it’s kind of weird that we were on a phone call when we were literally twenty feet away from each other.”

“Right, I’ll just yell through the wall next time.”

Felix’s laugh is this amalgamation of bright and deep that Changbin can’t fully comprehend. “Don’t do that, either,” he says, and helps Changbin out with some of the stuff before he lets the door click shut behind the two of them.

Felix and Minho’s room is semi-messy, semi-clean; it makes it very apparent whose side of the room is whose. On Felix’s side is a desk covered with sheet music, and his bed is poorly made, a hastily closed box of cereal on the blanket.

Felix sits down on the bed and offers Changbin the cereal, who shakes his head and focuses on setting up his easel. Already, Felix has his violin out, and Changbin wonders what he should ask Felix to do. He’ll have to give orders again, which he wasn’t very good at last time.

“So,” Felix says expectantly, “What’s the game plan?”

Changbin shoves his hands deeper in his pockets, then looks around the room.

“First, I’m going to close the curtains.”

Felix nods, intrigued. Changbin draws the blinds. Felix looks at home where he is; violin fitted against his stomach in resting position, a cheap metal stand about a foot away. Changbin nods to himself, says, “Alright, just do what you did last time.”

“Like, pretend to play without actually playing?”

“Yeah. Except in front of the music stand.”

“Alright,” Felix says, and complies, face tightening with concentration. Changbin squats on the floor, observing Felix; the lamp is right next to him, and he’s lit up warm gold, while the corners of the room are painted with shadow. It’s five o’clock and so it’s not that dark yet, but the fact it’s autumn helps.

“What are you composing?” Changbin asks, halfway through, as he takes a page of sheet music off the desk. He’s learned how to draw ledger lines for the sake of his ink tattoos, but the music notes mean nothing to him.

“Finish drawing and I’ll show you,” Felix says. “It’s nothing much, really.”

Changbin’s tempted to ask another question, but he shuts his mouth and works. The silence is there, but not stiflingly so; it’s comfortable, almost. Changbin thinks, if he has to draw someone again next semester, he’d choose Felix in a heartbeat.

An hour later and Changbin’s got what he needs. He can go and finish up later. He snaps a couple of pictures of Felix for reference, and after Changbin’s gotten a couple of serious shots, Felix breaks out of position to hold up a peace sign and wink.

Changbin clicks the shutter.

Felix dabs, and Changbin lowers his phone with an amused smile.

“This isn’t a photobooth, you know,” he says, mock-angry.

“Hey, you’re not paying me for this,” Felix says, then sits back down on his bed, stretching his legs out. “Ugh, I have cramps in my _everywhere_.”

Changbin feels guilty. “Yeah… I know. I’m sorry.”

Felix immediately catches on and shakes his head. “No, I didn’t mean it like _that_. I’m kidding. You can delete that last photo if you want, though, although, I look gorgeous.”

He frames his face with his hands and tilts his head, flashing a camera-ready smile. Something inside Changbin twists. “You look demonic.”

“Well, I do exist in academic hell on a daily basis.”

Changbin grimaces. “You got that right.”

“Damn straight I do.”

Changbin drums his fingers against the edge of the bed. “Can I see your compositions now?” he asks, jerking his chin toward Felix’s desk.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure.” Felix lifts the pages up off the desk and shuffles through them, smoothing them out and putting them in the right order before handing them to Changbin. It looks like some kind of foreign language to him, with its own punctuation and syntax rules; he tilts his head, studying it.

“It’s kind of messy,” Felix says. “A lot of people I know do it online, but I’m a masochist.”

“What’s it sound like?” Changbin asks.

Felix laughs nervously. “Whoa, I’m not answering that.”

“But you offered to show me the sheet music.”

“Yeah, but that’s basically Greek to you, so it’s fine. You really don’t want to hear what it sounds like when it’s played.”

“Nah,” Changbin says, enjoying this. “I think I do.”

“It’s really bad,” Felix says, pleading, “It’s like, not even half done—”

“I showed you _my_ rough drafts,” Changbin says, bringing out the heavy artillery. “Even though I told you they were complete crap—”

(It’s easy banter, back and forth. Like with Jisung, except somehow different.)

“Yeah, but you’re actually a good artist,” Felix whines, and Changbin just levels him with the most deadpan stare he can possibly summon. “ _Fine_ , then, I’ll play the first page. But don’t judge me too hard, alright?”

Changbin nods, and Felix picks up the bow and fits his violin under his chin. Felix is a total liar; he plays like a professional recording; better, even, because Changbin can actually see it. The bow practically floats over the strings. Changbin doesn’t even know how to describe the song. It’s like rap, except there are no words and it’s a violin that’s spitting fire.

Changbin claps after Felix lowers the bow, and Felix hides his face in his hands. Changbin has the strangest urge to pry his fingers away one by one.

“Is it for a class project or something?” Changbin asks, trying to cover up his mental slip-up. That was weird. He doesn’t know where that thought came from.  

Felix barks out a laugh. “Hell, no,” he says. “It’s way too contemporary.”

There’s a layer of insecurity underneath his voice that Changbin wishes he could smooth away, but Changbin doesn’t know how to compliment Felix, how to tell him that he could probably listen to Felix play forever, even if he’d never voluntarily listened to a violin in his life. Changbin sucks at compliments, period.

“Then what was it for?” he asks, instead.

Felix shrugs. “I just… compose on the side, sometimes,” he says. “I don’t know how marketable my songs are, considering the fact that I’m still developing my style and most people associate non-classical violin with Lindsey Stirling, but you know.”

“I’d buy your stuff on iTunes,” Changbin says.

“You wouldn’t pirate it?” Felix gasps. “Wow, that _is_ a high compliment.”

At this moment the door opens, and Minho walks in. “Hey, Felix, I— oh. Hey, Changbin.”

Changbin’s eyes drop to Minho’s wrist; Minho is no longer wearing the bracelet, but the music note design has also faded away. The easel is facing away from Minho, and Changbin is strangely glad for that. He doesn’t want Minho to see his rough draft, only the final product, polished until it gleams.

“Don’t mind me,” Minho says. It’s _awkward_.

“Nah, we were done, anyway, Felix was just showing me his music,” Changbin says. “I’ll get out of your room now, sorry.”

And then he packs up his stuff and leaves.

\---

“Wow,” Jisung says, scrutinizing the picture of Felix. “This is _sick_ , dude. Museum-worthy.”

Changbin levels Jisung with a deadpan stare. “I’m not done right now. He’s literally playing half a violin.”

“Yeah, but it’s like, it’s a good work-in-progress. I couldn’t do that.”

“Shut up, you can write.”

Jisung waves a dismissive hand. “That’s just word vomit,” he says, and Changbin gives up on the conversation. “Anyway, dude, come check this out. It’s awesome.”

He takes Changbin’s wrist and drags him toward the other side of the room, where there’s this box of assorted snacks. It’s huge. Changbin is pretty sure they won’t have to do a convenience store run for a month.

The flap is already opened, and Changbin sticks his wrist in and removes a bag of chips. “Where’d you get this?” he asks, tearing open the plastic.

“Minho bought it,” Jisung says. “I didn’t tell him to or anything. Apparently this is his form of repayment for making me stand still for five hours.”

Changbin immediately puts the chips down. “Are you trying to guilt-trip me?”

“... No?” Jisung asks, furrowing his brow. “Why, are you on a diet or something? Cause like, _dude_ , trust me, you don’t need one—”

Changbin shakes his head. “No, I just. Felix modeled for free.”

“Oh.” Jisung clicks his mouth shut, then opens it again. “Well, I doubt he minds.”

The topic is dropped, but Changbin can’t shake the sense that he owes Felix something in return. It’s five o’clock, and he remembers Felix’s offer to just drop by whenever, so he ends up going over and rapping his knuckles on the door. Felix opens it a minute later, hair wet from a shower.

“Hi?”

“Hi.” Changbin tugs at his sleeves. This is so lame. “So Jisung just showed me this, like, huge box of snacks that Minho bought him—”

“Oh my god,” Felix groans, slapping his hand over his face, “I _told_ Minho that was overkill. But did he listen? _Hell_ no.”

“So, uh, I don’t think I have the money or the arm-strength to get you one of those,” Changbin continues, wondering why his skin feels like it’s prickling, “but I can buy you dinner sometime. Just… text me or whatever when you want to cash in.”

“Oh.” Felix’s bites his lip, thinking. “Well, does today work?”

Changbin had actually been planning on finishing up painting Felix’s violin, but the logistics of the light on the instrument had been giving him hell for the past half hour, so he’s not too keen to return to it.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Alright,” Felix says, and grins. “Can you just give me a second to get changed, then? I think I spilled sriracha on my pants.”

Felix emerges three minutes later wearing ripped jeans and a snapback on his head, and the two of them head over to the dining hall. Felix orders something that doesn’t cost too much, and they bring their plates over to one of the tables and eat.

“Thanks, by the way,” Felix says, sticking a clump of rice into his mouth. “I was probably just going to eat something instant for dinner, but this is way better. I love food.”

“I gathered that.”

Felix squints at him. “Why do you sound mildly judgmental?”

“I’m _not_ ,” Changbin says. “I just have mixed feelings. When I’m in, like, a creative mood or whatever, I tend to forget to eat. So there’s that.”

“No wonder you’re so skinny,” Felix grumbles. “Yeah, I eat whenever, creativity be damned. Music is great, but so is chicken.”

Felix makes quick work of his meal, and Changbin’s actually kind of glad that he had to go buy Felix something, even if it means it’s another hole in his already leaky wallet, because he probably would've eaten something instant, also.

“What’s Australian food like?” Changbin asks, curious.

“Oh, dude, it’s great. I’d sell my soul for some pavlova.”

Changbin doesn’t even know what that is. He makes a mental note to search it up later. “It’s like this pie thing,” Felix explains to him. “With cream and strawberries on top.”

“That sounds really good.”

Felix hugs his arms around his knees. “It is. I kinda miss Australia in general,” he says, not sad, just thoughtful. “I mean, Seoul’s pretty great, though. Compromises.”

“Compromises?”

“Yeah, like, I came here for reasons.” Felix shakes his head, pushing his hair up out of his face before the damp strands flop over his forehead again.  “There’s a good violin program, and I’m, you know, _Korean_ , and then…”

“You get to room with your soulmate,” Changbin says.

It just slips out, and he internally winces. There’s an unspoken line in the sand when it comes to Minho. He doesn’t know why it’s there, but he crossed it, like an idiot.

Felix starts. And then he says, “Oh, yeah… I forgot you knew about that.”

He’s been fairly relaxed all dinner— actually, he’s always been pretty relaxed around Changbin, even during the time they were stuck in the elevator— but now he’s tense. Changbin doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like how Felix’s shoulders are suddenly stiff.

“We had a language gap, growing up,” Felix says, voice deep and reluctant. “It was cool, though, because it helped us both be sort of bilingual. Pros of having a soulmate, I guess.”

Changbin swallows thickly. “That’s— cool. I’d like to be bilingual.” _I’d like to have a soulmate_. Or did he?

“There’s like fifty billion language apps if you’re serious about that, and I can teach you the swears,” Felix offers, lighthearted.

And then the topic of soulmates is dropped. Felix stacks up their trays and gets up to throw away the trash; Changbin squints at Felix’s retreating back and feels a growing sense of unease creep up his throat. He squishes it down. It isn’t his business.

“What about you?” Felix asks. “Were you always in Seoul?”

“No,” Changbin says. “But I didn’t come from the other side of the equator, either.”

“Ah… was it different in your hometown, though?”

Changbin thinks. His hometown was the medium between a regular suburb and a sleepy ghost town. It wasn’t as loud there, as is in Seoul. Not as crowded, either. He lived in a square neighborhood where the only breech in shape was Hyunjin’s culdesac.

“Kind of,” Changbin says. “It was a lot quieter. A lot less… neon.”

“Oh my god, tell me about it,” Felix says, “Over the summer, I went to the city a lot at night. There were lights _everywhere_. The storefronts could make you go blind.”

“Your eyes okay?”

Felix grins. “Fortunately, I have good DNA,” he says. “But yeah, if you haven’t gone yet, you should try that sometime. If you’re lonely. Or homesick. Hypothetically, of course. Ah, what am I saying? I shouldn’t be offering you tourist destinations, I’ve been in Korea for about five months. That’s like two seconds compared to you.”

Changbin is happy Felix has some method of coping, uprooted and transplanted thousands of miles away, even if going to the city doesn’t work for Changbin. Sometimes, being surrounded by people makes him feel even more lonely.

They walk back toward the dorm together, and Changbin wonders, briefly, if maybe he should’ve chosen someone easier to draw. It isn’t that Felix is ugly or anything— on the contrary, Changbin likes drawing the splash of freckles over the bridge of his nose, the hard line of his chin, the shadow beneath his Adam’s Apple.

No, it’s just that Felix has so much charm derived from motion, his ever-changing facial expressions and the glint in his eyes as he speaks, and Changbin isn’t sure if he can capture that with just a single snapshot.

 

**[PAST]**

 

The start of high school is a little bit lonely. Especially because Changbin and Hyunjin are, in a sense, separated.

It’s more by the forces of societal gravity than by choice; Hyunjin, with his good looks and even better charisma, is swallowed up by the track club, and Changbin drifts through the halls with no particular tether. They have no classes together.

There’s no resentment. They’re still best friends. They still talk outside of school and do their homework together, but Changbin has to figure out a way to fit in when he doesn’t have Hyunjin anymore. He can’t eat lunch by himself and draw in the commons forever.

To solve this problem, and to appease his parents, he joins math team.

“Oh my god,” Hyunjin says, when Changbin tells him about it. “I can’t even talk to those guys. They, like, _physically radiate intelligence_.”

“Unlike you,” Changbin says, and Hyunjin cuffs him on the arm. “It isn’t too bad, you know. I’ve gone to two meetings. They’re nice people. Nerds, but nice people.”

“And you’re one of them now,” Hyunjin says, but it isn’t judgmental.

Changbin shrugs. “I told you, they’re nice people,” he says. “And trust me, I’m the dumbest one in there.”

He’s okay in there, he thinks. The movies portray math team members with teeth wrapped in metal bands and faces filled with acne and mouths only capable of speaking Einsteinian, but in reality, a lot of them are funny, and kind, and fully willing to take Changbin under their wing.

But at the same time— it hurts always coming out near the bottom, even though Changbin doesn’t really care. He knows that to the team coach, he is worthless, inadequate; he knows that by math team standards, he’s a failure. He isn’t stupid, but he’s stupid in here. People are nice to him, but they know he’s not competition.

He resists the pull of the tide and refuses to quit.

Something wholly good comes out of the endeavor eventually, though. It’s the start of sophomore year, and Changbin is back in room 258, flipping through the info packet. He knows that he’s going to be the alternate again, that he’s going to be at the bottom of the pack, so half of this information doesn’t even apply to him.

“Um, hi?” someone says, questioning, and Changbin looks up.

“Hi,” he says.

It’s obvious the kid in front of him is a freshman. He just emanates the vibe. “I’m Jeongin,” he says. “Um… what do you do here?”

Yang Jeongin is fourteen years old, with invisalign braces and an unruly mop of black hair. He’s got a face that Changbin can only describe as looking as if it’d been drawn with a strong hand, every smile line and dimple and curve exaggerated.

“Besides, like, math?” Changbin asks.

Jeongin grins and nods.

“Well, I mean, it’s basically just math,” Changbin tells him. “Don’t worry about it, you’ll figure it out. I joined late and caught on eventually.”

So Jeongin sets his backpack down and takes the seat next to Changbin, and that is how, that day, Changbin unknowingly adopts a freshman. He’s not the kind of person that does that, but Jeongin _is_ the kind of person that’s impossible not to love. Changbin doesn’t know why Jeongin picked him to ask out of all people, when Changbin wears black all the time and has a rather unfriendly resting face, but he isn’t going to complain.

\---

They’re on the bus late back from a meet, the bus sleepy, air filled with quiet murmuring. Jeongin is sitting next to Changbin, near the window, earbuds in. In the seat across the aisle, there’s a person-shaped lump, someone having gotten a blanket out of their seat and passed out on it.

It’s a long way back to their school.

Jeongin takes his earbuds out and winds the wires around his phone. “Phone’s dead, I forgot to charge it this morning,” he says to Changbin. “Can I borrow yours to text my parents when I get back?”

“Yeah, sure.” Changbin’s voice is too loud for the dimness of the bus.

Jeongin says, quietly, “How’d you think of the meet?”

Changbin had done reasonably well, for him. He was still in the bottom tier, but nearer average than usual. “It was relatively okay, considering that I usually suck. What about you?”

Jeongin snorts and lets his head fall forward onto the back of the seat in front of them. “I got zero of the questions right,” he says. “I didn’t know anything.”

Changbin swallows, hard, suddenly aware that Jeongin is sad. He curses himself out for not recognizing that sooner— normal Jeongin probably would’ve offered Changbin the other earbud if he was listening to music.

“That’s okay… the questions are hard,” Changbin consoles lamely. “The topic is hard.”

“You know, the coach didn’t even give me any grief,” Jeongin says, and attempts to laugh. “He’s given up on me at this point. I’m just really bad at math, I guess.”

“Jeongin—”

“You know, my friend? She was complaining because she got three of them right.”

“Well, she can screw off,” Changbin snaps. Sometimes he hates the type of competition that pervades the club. Math team is a misnomer; it’s not a team sport at all. If they’re lucky, only one person can make it to nationals.

“It’s okay, she wasn’t trying to be mean, she’s just better than me,” Jeongin says, with another harsh laugh. “I’ll just study harder for the next one.”

Changbin doesn’t know what to say. He wants to tell Jeongin that he’s good at math, that it’s just that the standards here are impossibly high, but the words get stuck in his mouth. All he says is, “If you want that, I can help you.”

Jeongin’s face is sad. “Thank you, I’ll take you up on that.” And then he forces a smile. “Jesus Christ, I’m being so depressing right now. Wanna verse me in Speed?”

“You always win at Speed, what are you doing? Let’s play Nervous Breakdown.”

They take out a pack of cards and stop talking about it, Jeongin giggling in horror when the bus hits a bump and the cards go flying off the seat.

The next day, Jeongin pretends like he hadn’t said anything, and Changbin lets him. But Jeongin does seem more determined to study.

“Okay,” Jeongin says. “I have chocolate Pocky in my backpack. Every right answer is one stick. At this rate, I’m not eating any Pocky.”

“Eat the Pocky anyway, or give it to me,” Changbin tells him. And then, “What problem are you doing?”

“Um, okay, here—” he slides the paper over. “So basically, Serena is watching an ice skating competition—”

“This a ridiculously dense word problem, what the hell—”

“Given that the speed of rotation is five spins per second, and that the skater’s leg is seventy-six centimeters long, and that the skater spins for three and a half seconds, how much total area  does the skater’s leg cover? Write the exact answer, with pi.” Jeongin bites his lip. “I can’t visualize it.”

“Here,” Changbin says, and pulls the paper toward him.

He doodles the ice skater, fully intending to explain to Jeongin the problem, but when he looks up, Jeongin is looking at him with his mouth agape. “Dude,” Jeongin says, “You’re so good at drawing, what the heck?”

Changbin starts— he doesn’t really tell the math team members about his art, mostly because everyone is always too busy doing math for him to really show anyone. “Oh, um, thank you? But basically what you do is—”

“Shush about the problem for a sec,” Jeongin says. “You drew that in like, five seconds, and it looks real. How’d you do that? Why are you in math team, you could be famous?”

Changbin shakes his head. “I’m really not that good,” he says, and tries not to feel too flattered by the open admiration in Jeongin’s eyes. “And I’m in math team because, you know. I need somewhere to be. And for college applications. And stuff.”

_I don’t know where else to go. Because I promise you, I’m not a genius._

_I’m just trying to get by_.  

Jeongin puts his face on the table, closing his eyes. “I wish I were as good at math as you were at drawing,” he mumbles. “Everything would be so much easier.”

There are dark circles under his eyes. Changbin watches Jeongin and feels his gut twist. Jeongin is smart. He’s not cut out for this, though. Jeongin is a square peg himself out to fit into a round hole, measuring out a radius and multiplying by pi, trying to round out his edges to be like everyone else on the team.

“So how much area does the skater cover?” Jeongin mumbles. “Ah… nevermind, I’ll figure it out myself. Thank you for the visual, though.”

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

There’s a sense of satisfaction when Changbin sets down the paintbrush.

It’s late, and he’s in the art studio. He’s finished with his picture, and he’s relatively happy with it. He knows it could be _better_ , but this is the extent of his skill at the current moment.

When he gets back to the dorm, he eats dinner with Jisung and Chan— Chan’s a miracle worker with the ingredients he has— and then proceeds to start his homework, before realizing that today is when Hyunjin is meeting up with Seungmin.

Changbin doesn’t like texting, but Hyunjin does, and Hyunjin is usually an exception, so Changbin sends over: _good luck_.

It’s way past midnight over in LA. Hyunjin’s response is swift: _I’m not ready._ And then, _but I’m calm._

Changbin rolls his eyes. _Go to sleep_.

_I’ve been trying to distract myself_ , is Hyunjin’s response. _I have like fifty wikipedia tabs open. did u know the most expensive toilet costs nineteen million dollars??_

_Okay, cool_ , Changbin says. _Now go to fucking sleep._

The deadline to turn in the painting is in three days— Changbin is done, so he’s got that covered, and he goes to sleep with ease that night. Unlike as with Hyunjin, who is probably not at ease at all. According to him, the meetup is at noon, which means that Changbin, like the good friend he is, sets an alarm for five in the goddamn morning.

The things he does for Hyunjin and his insecurity.

_i am hiding behind a flowerpot_ , Hyunjin texts him, right as Changbin shuts off his alarm and groggily checks his phone. _i think these are hydrangeas_

_I’ll take ur word for it._

_wait these might actually be roses_. Changbin has to resist the urge to physically hit his face in frustration. _okay i think i see him?_

Changbin pushes himself up and types back, _Then go. Don’t leave him waiting_.

He goes to take a shower, letting the water run over his head. He hopes that Hyunjin gets up from behind the flowerpot eventually. Changbin kind of wants to tell Seungmin to hang in there; he’s going to be stuck with Hyunjin for the rest of his life.

There’s also this knot in his stomach, and it’s five thirty in the morning when he realizes that it might be jealousy.

Which is fucking terrible. Because he never gets jealous, especially not of Hyunjin, and he buries his face in his hands under the spray and pushes against his temples like it’ll knock some sense in his head. It’s hard to tell himself it’s okay not to have a soulmate when all he’s known is happily ever afters.

Unbidden, he thinks of Felix, and that maybe there’s an exception to the rule.

As a self-punishment, he sends a text to ask Hyunjin how it went, then shuts his phone and goes off to class. The messages he sees when he surreptitiously checks his phone during the lecture are, surprisingly, relatively short and few.

_we’re meeting up in two weeks again_

_sorry for dumping all of my stress on you lol_

_idk. but yeah… it went well_.

Changbin types back, _Did you make him take a selfie with you?_

_…Yes._ The smile that comes to Changbin’s face at this, at least, is real.

_Send it to me._

He gets an image a few seconds later, Hyunjin and Seungmin’s faces pressed into the screen, kind of looking at the camera but kind of looking at each other, also. Along the bottom of the photo is the caption, _he kind of glows_.

For some reason, the wording makes Changbin uneasy.  

\---

On Wednesday, he goes to his painting class to turn his drawing in.

Jiyun’s drawing is gorgeous, this girl with her hair blowing around her head, barefoot in a sea of flowers under a rose-colored sky. There’s something soft and delicate about it, like the girl was one of the flowers herself, connected to the sun and to the ground.

Minho’s is Jisung. Changbin had nearly forgotten about that, that Minho was drawing Changbin’s roommate. His painting is a stark contrast to Jiyun’s, Jisung painted bold and unforgiving, his face determined and the sleeves of his sweater rolled up. Up his arm is the phrase _this, too, shall pass_ , written in bold calligraphy.

It’s an interesting portrayal of his roommate, but fitting at the same time. Jisung underneath all of his jokes and silliness, is someone built to survive.

Changbin knows his drawing is, from a technical standpoint, worse than both of theirs. In it, it’s midnight, the clock pointing at twelve. There’s sheet music spread on the desk, a stray piece crumpled on the floor. Felix is in the middle of the room, mouth bitten in concentration, determinedly playing the violin despite the tired set of his eyes.

The lighting is a mess; the way it hits the violin is probably completely inaccurate. And Changbin acknowledges this. He’s titled the piece _Glow_ , because the way he drew it, it’s kind of like some of the light comes from Felix himself, burning in the dark.


	4. peer pressure

**[PRESENT]**

 

Unfortunately, art is an exact science.

There’s technique to making things look good. Yeah, sure, Picasso’s geometry on steroids and Jackson Pollock literally did _paint splatters_ , but it’s also all carefully calculated. 

Changbin knows that. He also knows that in many ways, his drawing of Felix isn’t up to par. It still smarts a little when his professor docks him a hefty amount for lighting issues, and then some for various other problems he hadn’t even considered; he's grateful for the criticism, but it tastes like sour medicine going down his throat.

There’s a knock.

“Coming!” Jisung yells, springing off of his bed. “Wait— who are you?”

A muffled voice comes through the fading wood. “It’s Felix.”

“Oh, wait, Felix?” Jisung says, and hastens to pull open the door. “Good, I thought you might’ve been a serial killer. Or, worse, the RA. What’s up?”

“Is Changbin in here?” Felix asks, walking in. “I needed to ask him something.”

Jisung sighs theatrically. “And here I thought you were here to see me.”

“Nah, you’re not worth that,” Felix says, and  laughs when Jisung cuffs him on the shoulder.

Changbin gets up from his spot on the floor. Felix has his hands in his pockets— he’s wearing a gray sweatshirt that’s just slightly oversized. He looks good. Objectively. Changbin’s insides twist up with discomfort, and he asks, “What’d you need to ask?”

“Well, I was thinking last night at four in the morning—”

“Why were you up at four in the morning?” Jisung scolds, looking like an affronted mother squirrel as he shuts the door.

It’s funny, because Jisung’s not good with sleep, either, and Felix must know this as he completely ignores the question and continues, “Changbin never showed me the picture he drew of me. So I was just gonna ask, can I see it?”

Changbin immediately shakes his head. “No.”

He’s thinking about the comments on the rubric, and he’s thinking about how Felix might be disappointed, and on top of that, showing people his art feels like stripping down to nothing and skinny-dipping in front of a live camera.

Jisung, unfortunately, shares no such sentiment, and immediately crosses his arms. “Dude, what? But it was amazing!”

“See,” Felix whines, “ _Jisung_ got to see it, and he’s not even the person you drew.”

“Jisung has— special roommate privileges,” Changbin stammers feebly. “Besides, you already saw the rough drafts…”  

“Here, it’s in his drawer,” Jisung says. Traitor. Changbin decides that all hypothetical roommate privileges will be revoked from this moment onwards. “I’ll go get it.”

The painting is accordingly pulled out, and Changbin winces at it in all of its imperfect glory. Felix’s likeliness stares back at him from the sixteen by twelve rectangle canvas, while the real Felix’s mouth drops open, eyes widening into saucers.

“That was basically my reaction when I saw Minho’s drawing of me,” Jisung murmurs.

“ _Dude_ ,” Felix breathes. “You’re so good? Except you made me look about a thousand times better than I usually do.”

Changbin shifts uncomfortably, bites down something dumb like _but I was just drawing what I saw_. “Artistic license, I guess.”

“Thanks,” Felix says dryly, and Changbin tilts his head, uncomprehending. “No, really, thanks, though. For— making me look so cool. You’re amazing.”

“The lighting’s a mess,” Changbin mutters, praying his cheeks aren’t fire-engine red from the compliment. “You look like you’re super-saiyan.”

“That’s kind of impressive,” Jisung deadpans, “as last time I checked, Naruto wasn’t a music nerd.”

“The only way I’ve ever been drawn is like, stick-figure renditions, so I’ll take it, Naruto or not,” Felix says, and Changbin feels his chest constrict, not _dangerously_ , or painfully, but just a little oddly. “But now I feel bad.”

“Why?” Changbin asks.

“Because you bought me dinner,” Felix says plaintively. “You shouldn’t have done that. I’ll pay you back.”

Jisung pans a hand out in front of him. “He wasn’t even offered to play the part of the third wheel,” he announces, saying it like a narrator speaking to an imaginary audience. Changbin doesn’t get it— his roommate is great, but he’s a little weird sometimes. “No, a spare part would be too much to ask for — he was only a lonely tire in the garage, collecting dust from disuse.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “I see how you are a creative writing major now.”

“I try,” Jisung says, with a little bow. “But yo, Felix, I suggest you take the free food and _go_.”

“I won movie tickets in a raffle,” Felix says, turning back to Changbin and ignoring Jisung for the second time of the day. “We should go see it this weekend. It’s a horror movie, I think, are you okay with that?”

Jisung slams his hand against his face. “ _Yes_ , he is. Never have movie night with Changbin, I was scared of sleeping alone for _days_ —”

“I like horror,” Changbin says. “Are you asking me to come with?”

Felix beams. “Yeah. I’ll see you Saturday at three, then.”

And then he waves and heads out of their room, gently shutting the door behind him. Changbin takes his painting of Felix and shoves it back in his drawer. Somehow, it looks a little better to him than it did before.

“Tell me how the movie goes,” Jisung says.

“Yeah…” Changbin murmurs. He doesn’t even bother to yell at Jisung for showing Felix the drawing without his permission, too preoccupied. It’s weird, because he kind of wishes he were seeing the movie with Jisung. Because Felix is different, and it’s not a good kind of different. It’s a kind of different that Changbin prays he is wrong about.

\---

Changbin goes with Felix to the cinema on Saturday despite subconscious qualms.

“Okay, so,” Felix says, chewing his lip. “I know I asked you if you were okay with horror.”

“I told you, I’m okay with it,” Changbin says. He’s watched enough of them that they don’t really scare him anymore. It’s all fake blood and background music, anyway.

“Well…” Felix draws out the word. “I’m, um, not actually that okay. With it.”

Changbin stares at Felix in disbelief. “What?”

Felix tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth before letting go, mouth slightly redder than it was a few seconds ago. “I’m not— _that_ bad. But, um. Just a warning, yeah.”

Felix lied. He isn’t that bad with horror movies.

He’s _really, really bad_ with horror movies. To be honest, watching Felix watch a horror movie makes Changbin feel more terrified than watching the movie itself.

Felix starts shaking at the previews. He spills popcorn kernels on the ground. When the first sign of danger shows up, he slams his hands over his eyes. He shrieks when the monster appears onscreen. He shrieks _even louder_ when the monster attacks. He latches onto Changbin like a leech at the half hour mark and then doesn’t let go until the end credits start to roll, where he screams again because the director used Comic Sans.

It’s an experience, to say the least, and Changbin can’t even say he regrets it.

When the movie’s over, Felix staggers out of the theater with a haunted look on his face. “Oh my god,” he whispers.

“Felix—”

“Don’t even start,” Felix says, closing his eyes. “Don’t rub it in.”

“It wasn’t even really that scary…” Changbin says weakly.

Felix cracks open one eyelid to level Changbin with a red-eyed, traumatized glare, and Changbin promptly shuts up.

Changbin chucks their 3-D glasses into the bin and thinks about the movie. It’s silent, probably because Felix’s nerves are too frayed at the moment to hold a coherent conversation. Actually— Changbin’s been friends long enough with Hyunjin to know that Felix is probably playing his terror up a little bit.

Go big or go home, after all.

It’s a pretty good movie. Like most horror movies, it’s predictable, but there’s an element of subtlety to it that makes it a bit more chilling than most.

The plot follows: these two girls are soulmates, and they write messages back and forth, like most bonded pairs. And then this demon parasite takes over one of the girl’s souls, and the messages begin to get weird, until they’re written in _blood_ and carved right into the skin itself.

Not going to lie, it makes Changbin feel a lot better about not having a soulmate.

“What if I wake up one day and my entire arm is covered with death threats?” Felix says, worried. Changbin coughs out a laugh. “Hey! This is a serious concern.”

“Well, then you’d know that Minho has been possessed,” Changbin answers calmly. “Right? And then you could, I don’t know, exorcise him or something.”

Felix’s mouth twists, considering this. “I guess…”

“The only reason the plot was able to work was because they were in two separate countries.”

“Ah, you’re right. The logic will kick in eventually. It’s just a little bit— I don’t know, too soon right now,” Felix grumbles. “Okay, in the meantime, I’m _really sorry_ I made you watch that with me. I swear I’m much more calm during other movies.”

“No, it’s fine,” Changbin says. “You were— entertaining.” That’s a word for it.

“Good to know,” Felix says. He sticks his hands in his hoodie pocket, and comes out with a pen. “Hey… Changbin, can I ask you a favor, though?”

“What, you got an evil demon in your soul that wants me to do your bidding?”

Felix stiffens, then glares. “Changbin, _too soon_. No, I just. I want you to draw something on me again. If that’s okay with you…”

Changbin isn’t even the slightest bit drunk this time. He looks at the pen, and then at Felix’s arm, which is currently covered in fabric. “Are you sure Minho won’t mind?” he asks.

Because Minho had seemed to mind a little bit last time, what with the whole bracelet thing and such. But Felix shakes his head. They stop on the sidewalk and Changbin pushes the sleeve of Felix’s sweater up, setting the pen down to skin.

A little warning bell goes off in his head.

But he ignores it and draws a thin swirl pattern on his arm— if Minho wants to cover it with a bracelet, at least it won’t be so bulky— and then adds a little star design in the center. “There,” Changbin says. “That’s supposed to guard you against bad spirits.”

Felix’s eyes are wide, admiring his arm. “Wait, really?”

Changbin swallows, nods. He knows this, way back from high school. “Yeah.”

 

**[PAST]**

 

_Admitted, love is hard_

_When you aren’t my other half_

_But half of someone else—_

_I still kiss you, anyway._

_~ A Tragedy in Verse, 2004_

 

The top contender on Changbin’s mental list of taboo subjects is probably his love life.

It’s nonexistent enough, but the little attempts— attempts? Perhaps they could be called that— at creating one haven’t had the happiest endings. He’s not bitter about it, but sometimes there’s residual pain whenever he remembers.

The soulmate system might’ve been created by the angels, but hearts are very much human. Very fickle. It exists as a separate entity than the soul, and Changbin knows this all too well.

It isn’t just him, either, to be fair. That’s what Changbin tries to remember, even though he knows his own situation is rather unique.

Hyunjin calls him one night, borderline hysterical, and Changbin is tired, but his yawns immediately dissipate at the sheer worry in Hyunjin’s voice.

“What?” Changbin asks. “Are you alright? Do you need me to come over?”

“No, it’s just—” Hyunjin’s voice wavers. “I just… I had a dream… where…”

Changbin stays silent, waits for Hyunjin to continue.

“I dreamed I kissed one of our classmates,” he whispers, voice shattered.

Changbin isn’t very good at consoling anyone. But he tells Hyunjin that it’s okay, that he won’t judge. It turns out fine, anyway, because subconsciouses are generally evil things. He doesn’t dream about that classmate again, and it’s so painfully obvious that Hyunjin belongs to Seungmin.

Changbin, on the other hand, has never had this certainty.

The first time he likes anyone is in sixth grade. Her name is Choi Mina and she’s got this braid that goes all the way down to her waist and a voice that makes Changbin blush whenever it wraps around the syllables of his name.

They’re partners on a project and Changbin can barely even speak. She’s so nice. She does her entire half of the work and then some.

“Hey, Changbin,” she asks, after they turn it in.

“Y-yeah?” Internally, he curses out his stutter.

“I heard you’re really good at drawing,” she says, sweet and oblivious. “Um… could you draw something on my arm? For my soulmate?”

He goes home and lies on the floor. It isn’t even that he likes Mina that much— he’s in sixth grade— but he’s acquired the bleak knowledge that this sort of thing will happen over and over again, and he’s got no power to stop it.

It’s fine, it’s fine.

He tells Hyunjin about it a month into summer break, says it lighthearted and sticks a couple of jokes in, but Hyunjin’s isn’t fooled. He hugs Changbin and tells him that Mina shouldn’t have asked something like that of him and looks so guilty that Changbin resolves not to tell him about stuff like this again.

He has a few more crushes throughout middle school. Most of the time, he’s lucky; they disappear within a few weeks. And he avoids the person, if he can, once that sort of thing starts to happen. It’s exhausting. He hates it. And on the off day where he feels _really_ bad for himself, he’ll write something on his arm and pretends someone will reply.  

He scrubs it off almost immediately when it happens. He’s not that pathetic.

\---

In ninth grade, there’s Minseok.

They’re in the same gym class and lunch period, and they’re kind of friends. Changbin feels a little sick around him, the beginnings of another crush blooming in his stomach.

Minseok has hair that’s constantly in his face and full lips and a sad smile. And the thing is, it isn’t just a crush, this time. Well— maybe it is; Changbin isn’t sure what love is. But it’s _different_. Because this time, something happens.

“My soulmate doesn’t want me,” Minseok says. It’s a hazy memory. They’re on the bench outside of the school eating sandwiches together.

“Don’t say that.”

“They never respond. I see the ink on my skin but it’s always accidental.” Minseok looks down at his food. “I’m sorry, I should shut up.”

Changbin doesn’t want pity. “Don’t be sorry. Not having a soulmate isn’t so bad.”

“We make quite the pair, don’t we?” Minseok comments idly. “Hey, you want some of my sandwich?”

“I’ll switch if you hand me half of your tangerine.”

The two of them— it was always a thing about mutual brokenness.

But Changbin learns how to kiss through Minseok. How to make someone feel wanted, and to feel wanted in return. How to widen the hole in his own heart so he can have the satisfaction of stitching it back together, not knowing about net loss.

It’s always harsh and their kisses always taste a little bit like tears.

Minseok moves away at the end of the school year, and maybe it’s for the best. Changbin knows Minseok’s grades have been spiralling, that he’s been out from school more and more. They don’t agree to stay in contact, but Changbin prays that wherever Minseok is, he’s okay.

It isn’t Minseok’s fault— Changbin’s never resented him. To be honest, Minseok’s situation seems ten thousand times worse than his.

Not that it was ever a contest, anyway.

He should’ve learned from it. Should’ve learned that the universe never had a love story cut out for him.

But in tenth grade, there is Iseul.

Iseul is a poet who writes only on torn scraps of paper, ripped off notebooks or reused from recycling bins. Iseul is a person who doesn’t mind broken things, who can turn them into something beautiful. And Changbin felt whole, next to her.

“I don’t think the soulmate system’s worth it,” she tells him. “But… I think I like you.”

“What about your soulmate?” Changbin asks, face blank.

“We always agreed not to decide so soon,” she says. “Right now, all he is is words on skin. Yes or no, Changbin?”

“Sure,” he says, and wonders if he’ll regret this. “Let’s try it out.”

And they work. They work out really well. She hands him half of whatever she’s bought from the vending machine and he’ll hand her his math notes to copy off of, and then whenever Changbin draws something she’ll add a little caption underneath it in her neat scrawl, usually a small poem. They hold hands. They refuse to kiss under the nook in the stairwell because it’s cliche and have their first kiss in the arcade instead.

They aren’t something that’s acceptable, but that’s never what Changbin cares about. Iseul isn’t conventionally beautiful, features plain enough that Changbin’s eyes had skimmed over her before she asked him out, but now, she shines.

And then day comes when she tells him she’s sorry, but they aren’t meant for each other. She seems a little broken when she says it, but not as much as he is, splintering into pieces on the ground while he keeps his face motionless and makes sure his voice doesn’t shake when he tells her it’s okay.\

"I’m sorry,” she says again.

“It’s okay,” he says back. “Really.”

She looks like she wants to tell him more, but what can she do— he’s the one who will never, ever have the backup option, the luxury of having someone made for him.

Changbin goes through the five stages of grief, spends too much pocket money on cookies and video games, breaks down and tells Hyunjin about it when he asks what’s wrong.

So maybe Changbin is a romantic. But after the whole episode, both Minseok and Iseul, he realizes that this is not a world that allows for him to be a romantic.

He doesn’t even have a crush on anyone for the rest of high school.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

At least, Changbin thinks, friends aren’t determined by fate.

He’d read this story once where not _only_ did soulmates have the ability to communicate through skin, the protagonist also had the ability to see the strings that connected people, familial love and platonic love and romantic love, and manipulate them.

It was well written. Changbin remembers throwing his phone at the wall after reading it.

“Hey,” Chan asks, “You guys okay with a friend staying over for the night?”

Jisung looks up. “I don’t care, as long as he doesn’t care about Changbin’s snoring.”

Changbin throws a sock at Jisung. “I don’t _snore_.” Jisung grins back. “Where are they gonna sleep, though?”

“My bed,” Chan says. “I’ve got a sleeping bag for these scenarios, it’s all good.”

Jisung shrugs, and Changbin shrugs, and then no more is said on the subject.

The next day is Tuesday. Changbin goes to his morning classes, eats lunch with Jiyun, goes to his afternoon classes, gets sidetracked by a stray pigeon, and then, when he’s about to head back to the dorm, remembers that Chan’s going to have someone over for the night. He wonders if he should maybe go to the library instead, then.

But then he shakes his head. It’ll be fine.

When he opens the door, Jisung isn’t there, but Chan is, along with someone else, who is assumably his friend. They’re sitting on Chan’s bed together. The guy’s hair is ombre, and it looks good, starts off dark and goes down to a straw blonde, and when he looks up, Changbin freezes.

He looks _really_ familiar. Like— really familiar.

“Wait, _Woojin_?” Changbin asks. He can’t believe this. There’s no way.

Woojin blinks, once, twice, eyes roving over Changbin’s features, and then he hastily removes his headphones and says, “ _Changbin_?”

There’s a moment when the two of them just stare stupidly at each other, and then Chan takes his headphones off as well and snaps them out of it. “Whoa, what’d I miss?”

Woojin’s grin is wide and genuine. “You look really different after what… seven years?”

“Same to you.” It’s funny, because even though Woojin looks so different, Changbin still feels that starry-eyed respect for him, even if he’s no longer ten years old. “I like the hair.”

“Someone please explain to me what’s going on,” Chan says tiredly.

Woojin takes pity on him. “Me and Changbin went to the same after-school program back when we were kids,” he explains. “I didn’t think I’d get to see him again. It’s like something out of a sitcom.”

Like getting stuck with Felix in the hellevator, Changbin thinks. But in this case, real life is better— he’s happy he gets to see Woojin again. Even if their personalities don’t sync up anymore, even if both of them have changed. Changbin doesn’t care— his opinion of Woojin is one preserved in memory.

“Whoa, that’s cool,” Chan says. “Hey, why doesn’t this stuff ever happen to me?”

Woojin grins cheekily. “You have a soulmate, fate’s already given you enough.”

Changbin laughs. “What are you guys doing right now, anyway?”

Chan looks relieved that the subject is back to something he understands. “So I just finished my new track, and I need Woojin to help me with my cover art,” he says. “We’ve been doing this co-op thing since I was a freshmen and he was a sophomore.”

Maybe it isn’t so much of a miracle Changbin and Woojin met again. Woojin— he takes care of everyone.

“You should help out, Changbin,” Woojin says. “I could use an extra opinion.”

So this is how Jisung finds them an hour later: Chan frustrated because his lettering doesn’t look right, Changbin bobbing his head to one of the tracks, and Woojin with his teeth sunk into his lower lip as he shades in the design. Jisung immediately joins them, shrugging off his hoodie and leaning close to the laptop.

They finish up around ten, Woojin finally having gotten the cover art to something he’s satisfied with. Chan says he’ll have the finished thing ready to upload by tomorrow. Jisung has an earbud in one ear and is rapping badly along, making Chan’s face contort into someplace between laughter and utter regret.

“Oh,” Changbin says. The word is quiet, but there’s something in his voice that makes the rest of them look at him curiously.

“What?” Jisung asks.

Changbin waves this off. “Nothing, nothing.”

He doesn’t know if it’d be his place to say.

It’s just funny, because only one percent of the world is soulmateless, yet Changbin, Jisung, and Woojin all belong in this category. They’re not part of the norm, and they haven’t come out unscathed, but as Woojin sinks his head into the mattress declaring he is officially dead for the day and Chan squawks in outrage at some of Jisung’s opinions, Changbin thinks that they all turned out okay.

\---

Woojin requests for Changbin’s number, and Changbin gives it to him.

A message pops up three days later; Woojin, apparently, is the sort of person who texts. _Do u want to get coffee? I got a gift card so im buying people stuff._

That’s ridiculously nice. If _Changbin_ got a gift card at the campus coffee shop, he sure as hell wouldn’t be sharing it with anyone.

Nevertheless, he’s got half an hour before he’s got somewhere to be, so he walks across the campus to the coffee shop. It’s autumn, the leaves brown and crunchy, the wind cutting just a shade too cold for comfort through his jeans. Woojin’s wearing a beanie and a scarf, and Changbin looks at the frayed blue threads and thinks of Felix.

“Changbin,” Woojin says. “What kind of coffee do you take?”

Changbin shifts and looks down at his sneakers, suddenly shy. “Black,” he says.

That’s a lie. Woojin doesn’t know that, though, just nods and goes to order. When Woojin isn’t looking, though, Changbin takes his coffee to the counter and dumps in three packets of sugar and cream, until the black has faded to a swirly warm tan.

“I’m paying you back,” Changbin says when he comes back to their table, sliding three bills over to Woojin.

Woojin raises his eyebrows, a little stunned. “You really don’t need to.”

“Yeah, but… ” Changbin says. He just knows he doesn’t want to burn a hole, no matter how small, into Woojin’s wallet a week into meeting him again. “Just take it, please.”

Woojin looks like he’s about to resist, but then he pockets the bills and takes a sip of his coffee. “Thank you, then.”

Changbin catches sight of the wall clock and says lamely, “I have to go to class in a few minutes, just a heads-up.”

Woojin waves this off. “That’s cool, I was just planning on buying you the coffee. And, I don’t know, find out your major and stuff. I don’t know what I’m saying. What are you majoring in?”

“Art, actually.”

Woojin’s face splits into a grin. “See, I _knew_ you were good!”

“Hopefully, better than I was back in fourth grade.” It’s a little surreal, talking to Woojin about art— it feels like some kind of Star Wars flashback or something.

“I’m probably nowhere near as good as you are now,” Woojin says, sounding completely okay with that. “I’m majoring in architecture.”

That’s not what Changbin expected, but it fits. “That’s really cool.”

“Eh, yeah. I’m not so good at the math aspect of it,” Woojin says, with a small laugh.

Woojin is the sort of person content with silence, turning the quiet into something comfortable, like steam rising out of teacups or rain falling on sidewalks, but Changbin is neurotic when it comes to interaction and feels like any sort of silence is of the suffocating, awkward sort, unless he knows the person very, very well.

“How are you doing, though?” he asks. “Like… I don’t know?”

“I’m doing good, I’m doing fine,” Woojin says, quoting the first few bars of Chan’s new song. “Somewhere along those lines, I guess. You?”

Changbin dips his chin. “Me too.” His phone beeps in his pocket, a warning. “Sorry, I gotta go now. I’ll— see you.”

“Catch you later,” Woojin says, and Changbin walks out of the coffee shop.

He isn’t sure how fine he’s actually doing, but he thinks it’s enough for now.

 

**[PAST]**

 

About a month before Iseul breaks up with him, Changbin and Jeongin go to one of Hyunjin’s track meets. It’s spring of sophomore year, the tail end of math team season, and Changbin and Jeongin sit near the top of the the stands and pass a pack of chips between them.

Hyunjin looks up at the two of them and tries to shut his eye in a wink. It does not look like a wink.

“Is he okay?” Jeongin asks worriedly.

Changbin takes one of the chips. “Don’t worry about it, he’s fine,” he tells Jeongin. Hyunjin, as if he can sense Changbin making fun of him, crosses his arms.

Jeongin swings his legs against the metal bleachers, and Changbin follows his gaze over to the cheerleaders near the sidelines. “What if they had cheerleaders for math team?” he jokes. “They could wave calculators instead of pompoms.”

“No way,” Changbin says, laughing. “That’d require like, the school actually acknowledging our existence. They just stick our trophies on the shelf and say nothing.”

“True, true,” Jeongin says. And then, “Oh, dude, that’s my friend up next!”

He stands up and cups his hands over his mouth as he yells encouragement. Changbin wipes flavored dust on his pants and looks at the colors on Jeongin’s arms— he’s got two soulmates, so his limbs are constantly adorned with ink— and thinks that it’s nice how Jeongin hasn’t let high school rip his spirit away from him. Admirable.

On Jeongin’s left, his homework sits, abandoned.

Jeongin is now a contestant on math team. The kid is good. Changbin feels a sense of pride over it, although he’s no means responsible. On the other hand, Changbin’s status has been lowered to alternate; he goes to competitions and doesn’t tell his parents where he stands, doesn’t tell them his scores no longer count for anything at all. He knows they’ll figure it out eventually, but he doesn’t like to think about it.

Jeongin sits down, cheering officially done. “She got second,” he reports.

“Is that good?”

“Hell yeah, she usually gets like, fourth,” Jeongin says, and shakes his head. “We’re probably gonna go get celebratory ice cream after it.”

Changbin chews on his lip. “— Can I come?”

Jeongin grins. “If you want,” he says. “You wanna hang out with a bunch of freshmen?”

Changbin cuffs him on the shoulder. “You know I don’t care about that kind of stuff—” it’s not like _Changbin’s_ really popular, anyway “— and ice cream is ice cream. Me and Hyunjin are probably getting cones afterward, anyway.”

Jeongin’s eyes go a little bit starry-eyed, and he looks down at his hands. Changbin suppresses a laugh. For some reason, Jeongin kind of idolizes Hyunjin, and Changbin knows that Hyunjin likes the attention, appreciates it even if he has no idea where it comes from.

“I wish I ran track, sometimes,” Jeongin says wistfully.

“Yeah?”

“Or field,” Jeongin amends.

“I mean, if you want to, nobody’s stopping you—”

“No, I’d totally embarrass myself out there, and it’s not worth the time commitment, but like, the culture of it seems cool. You know.”

This, Changbin can sort of understand. Every niche in their school has its own atmosphere— he knows that the band is basically one large, insane family, drama a constant stage, etc. Math team isn’t the best with that. There, even friends are competition. Without Jeongin, Changbin would feel completely alone.

Jeongin nudges him and points. “I think Hyunjin’s up next?”

They abandon conversation is abandoned as they yell at Hyunjin to run faster— he’s in the 400x400 medley, and Changbin gets earfuls about how annoying their anchor is and how they’re saddled with both the distance _and_ the sprint warm-ups, but Changbin knows Hyunjin is also complaining just for the sake of complaining because Hyunjin wouldn’t trade this for the world.

Their school wins first place, and Changbin’s throat hurts from screaming.

“Celebratory ice cream,” Jeongin cheers, because their team had done better than it usually did.

Five minutes later, Hyunjin clambers over to where they are. Changbin says, “Nice job, dude.” Hyunjin shoots him finger guns and fist-bumps Jeongin.

They all go over to the nearby ice cream place. Changbin doesn’t actually like ice cream that much, so he gets a single scoop and nurses it like one would a beer at a party, and Hyunjin gets some outrageous multi-colored concoction that he leaves the chocolate chips off because _they have too many calories_. Jeongin talks mostly to his freshmen friends, but after a while he comes over to hang out with the two of them.

“Hey,” Hyunjin says. “What’s up?”

Changbin points a spoon at Hyunjin. “He’s going to crash from too much sugar in point two seconds,” he says. “Just watch him.”

“I get no respect around here,” Hyunjin mutters. “You know the rest of the relay team is at the bakery, right? I could join them.”

“You don’t even like most of your relay team,” Changbin counters. “So shut up.”

Hyunjin shrugs, not able to counteract that, because it’s true. He puts aside his dislike for competitions, but they’re not the kind of people he’d talk to on purpose. Hyunjin prefers to talk to one of the two-hundred meter dudes and this girl who does shot put.

“You were really good out there,” Jeongin says sincerely. “I wouldn’t be able to do that.”

Changbin groans. “Don’t inflate his ego, it’s already the size of a hot air balloon.”

“Seungmin likes hot air balloons, so I think we’re good,” Hyunjin retorts. Changbin waves a dismissive hand. “But Jeongin, it’s really not that cool. Math’s a lot harder.”

Jeongin blushes, and Changbin resists the urge to roll his eyes, feeling half-fond, half-exasperated.

“Those would be super boring to watch, though,” Jeongin says, finally.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Changbin deadpans. “I love watching a bunch of nerds writing on paper for two hours.”

Hyunjin looks thoughtful. “Yeah, but it’s like— I don’t know, a _thing_.”

Understandably, Jeongin looks extremely confused. “Huh?”

Changbin doesn’t even bother to make fun of Hyunjin for his vagueness. Hyunjin can probably feel the amusement rolling off him in waves.

“I just mean, like,” Hyunjin continues, gesturing with his plastic spoon, “Jeongin’s good with math, so he does math team, and I’m decent at running, so I do track, and you just... you should go somewhere with your art. I mean.”

“The art club at our school is super lame,” Changbin counters. “It’s a bunch of show-offs playing with charcoal.”

Hyunjin shakes his head. “Then don’t do that. You fucking know what I mean.”

Something hot and uncomfortable settles in Changbin’s gut, and he’s pretty sure it’s not just a result of the ice cream. He stirs his spoon around in the soupy remnants, unable to meet Hyunjin’s eyes. There are a few things Changbin knows: he spends over two hours a day practicing drawing. He burns his sketchbooks when he completes them, save a few pictures he really likes.

Hyunjin bugs him a lot about that. He’s threatened that the next time Changbin burns a sketchbook, he’d burn _him_.

“Whatever,” Changbin mutters, like the mature person he is.

Hyunjin sighs. “Can I at least get a celebratory temp?” he asks, and holds out his arm.

Changbin fishes out the marker he always has in his hoodie pocket and sets the pen to skin. “I can’t believe Seungmin is okay with this shit,” he says, and starts drawing a track design around Hyunjin’s wrist. Jeongin watches, fascinated, and Changbin tries to put the feeling of unease out of his mind.

\---

When Iseul breaks up with him, Changbin starts to care less about things.

To be fair, Changbin always felt a certain sense of disillusionment, with the whole lacking-a-soulmate thing, but that’s a dull bruise compared to this sharp sting. It’s hard to get a slight taste of the idealism that Changbin could never really rid himself of and then have it ripped away from him.

Fortunately, his reaction is not to completely ditch his regular persona or anything, and he only doesn’t do his homework for about two days— Hyunjin sense something’s wrong, so Changbin cleans himself up relatively fast so to not worry him. But Changbin gets the sense that there’s really not much for him to lose in this world.

And so it’s right before the last math meet when shit hits the fan.

“Tomorrow is regionals,” his mom says, businesslike, at dinner. “So don’t forget to pack your calculator, and an extra set of pencils both mechanical _and_ wooden—”

Changbin takes a deep breath. “I’m not going.” It’s been hanging like a cloud on him all week.

“What do you mean, you’re not going?” she asks, and her brow furrows. “Changbin, are you sick? You can take medication if you’re sick—”

Changbin shakes his head. “I didn’t make the cut.”

His performance hadn’t been all that good for the entire year; even so, he’d had his position pretty solid as an alternate. But around when he and Iseul were dating, he’d been drawing a lot more, and neglected his practice worksheets, and then the day after she’d broke up with him had been the tryouts for the regionals teams.

The results were crystal clear: Changbin isn’t even an alternate.

“What do you mean,” his dad says, low, finally contributing to the conversation, and Changbin swallows.

What follows is horrific— his parents cross-interrogate him, and then, when they aren’t satisfied with his answers, they dig through all of his past blank worksheets and half-hearted attempts at practice and wave them at his face. Changbin’s sketchbook is still hidden in between a pair of pants in his closet, so he’s safe with that, but the evidence that his parents find is still damning.

“What have you been _doing_?” his mom explodes. “What’s going on?”

Changbin swallows hard. “I…”

“It’s like I don’t know you,” she continues to say. “How can you expect to win like this? Tell me!”

“I don’t want to win!” Changbin shouts.

“Of course you want to win!” his mom says, desperate for him to understand. “Life is a _competition_ , and from the looks of it, you’re falling behind! What have you been doing with all these hours? Why aren’t any of these finished?”

“Tell me you haven’t been drawing again,” his dad says.

Changbin stays silent.

Then, since he figures they can’t get any more mad, he goes into his closet and rifles through his pants until he gets his sketchbook. He goes out of the closet to his parents’ faces, his mother bone-white and his father a tomato red, and shoves the sketchbook onto the bed in front of them.

“Here,” he says. “This is what I’ve been doing.”

They look through it, and Changbin tries to hide the fact he is shaking like a leaf. At least he’s not crying. He’s running on adrenaline right now, terrified out of his mind.

“You,” his dad says, and can’t get anything else out, speechless.

“You’re going to ruin your life like this,” his mom picks up, and in horror, Changbin realizes that _she’s_ crying. “Art— what can you do with that? You can’t do that.”

His father recovers. “There’s no money to be made with art,” he says. “Tomorrow, we’re going to enroll you in San Math Academy— I should’ve done that a long time ago. We’re doing this for you, you know, there’s no money to be made with art, no happiness— it’s clear that you don’t know what you’re doing. I shouldn’t have trusted you. This is our fault—”

Changbin closes his eyes in horror. “ _No_ ,” he bursts out.

 _“Don’t talk to me like that_ —”

“You don’t know anything!” Changbin yells, losing composure. And it’s kind of true— they thought Iseul was just a friend that he fought with. “Art’s the only thing that makes me feel anything! I don’t have a soulmate! I’m not _cut out_ for normal! And you— and you don’t have to support that, but I just… I want to have a love, too.”

He’s not even sure if he’s making sure at this point. His entire body is limp. His mom’s eyes are glassy with tears and his dad’s are brimming with fire.

“Okay,” his dad says calmly. “Okay.”

The moment feels like the eye of the storm, the slow-motion montage in a movie during a dramatic scene. Changbin thinks he can feel the world spinning underneath his feet.

“You can do that,” his dad says, and Changbin isn’t sure he hears right. His father’s face is impossibly calm, cold iron and stagnant water. “But we won’t support it. If you want to ruin your life, you do it on your own.”

Changbin swallows, and then he tilts his chin up defiantly and nods. In the back of his mind, his subconscious starts calculating costs, how much he needs to save up, how much he needs to borrow. His dad stumbles back a little, like he didn’t expect Changbin to actually take that offer, and then he straightens up and walks out of the room, his mother following a moment later.

Changbin clicks the door shut behind them.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

It hurts a little, though, not having his parents’ support on his side.

It’s another one of those nights— perhaps, if Changbin were brave enough to go to a doctor, his insomnia would have an official name, maybe accompanied by a little bottle of blue pills. It’s two in the morning and he’s awake.

Chan and Jisung are sleeping peacefully this time, though. The storm is only his own.

He pulls on his sneakers and heads out of the dorm toward the campus convenience store. It’s slightly different going alone— a little more peaceful, but a little more lonely, too. It’s a cloudy night. The window panes of the convenience store are dusty yellow squares in the dark.

He pushes open the double doors and heads inside. Changbin has to be careful with his pocket change, so he makes a game out of walking down the aisles looking for the cheapest snack he can find. He’s pretty sure a lot of this stuff is expired.

“Hey,” someone says, and Changbin whirls around.

It’s Minho. Changbin starts, then takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Hi.” And then, “It’s pretty late.”

Minho’s mouth quirks up in a ghost of a smile. “Could say the same for you. Unless time operates differently over there.”

Changbin shrugs. He finally finds a snack that’s only three hundred won and slips it off the shelf. Idly, he considers shoplifting, not because he wants to do it, but because this place just makes it so _easy_ : no security, no nothing. He won’t, though.

“I couldn’t sleep, either,” Minho continues. “And Jisung told me about last time you guys went out. Figured I’d try it out for myself.”

“And,” Changbin tests, “how’s it working out for you?”

Minho shrugs. “The jellies here are okay. I don’t know about the sleep, though.”

They square off in the aisle. Minho’s tone is light, but something about him feels so _off_ that it makes Changbin extremely uncomfortable. And then, because he figures at this point he doesn’t really have all that much to lose, he asks, “Do you have a problem with me, or something?”

Minho laughs, and places the pack of jellies back on the shelf. “Not at all.”

Changbin refuses to allow himself to feel dumb. “Really.”

“Yes, really,” Minho continues. “You’re a good artist and all, and I admire you. It’s just Felix. I might not be the most conventional soulmate, but I am protective of him, you know.”

“What’s Felix got anything to do with this?” Changbin asks, suddenly feeling like the ground is unsteady underneath his feet.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Minho says, and then allows his sleeve to slip up, so Changbin can see the design he drew earlier on Felix’s arm. “Well, if you can’t figure it out yourself, you’re not worthy of him. See you, now.”

Changbin isn’t even able to take solace in the fact that Minho nearly runs into the pole on his way to the door. He’s too busy mulling over Minho’s words in his mind. What the hell is Minho talking about? He doesn’t know, but it unsettles him, and he doesn’t like it at all.

Changbin shakes his head returns to the dorm.

\---

Changbin is back in the convenience store again, but this time, it’s with Felix.

Changbin isn’t sure how Felix got here. He isn’t sure how he _himself_ got here. It’s still dark outside, but faint rays of sunlight paint the horizon. Felix has picked up the pack of jellies that Minho had put down. His hair gleams under the fluorescent lighting.

“Hey,” Felix says, shifting his weight to one side of his body.

“Minho was just here,” Changbin blurts out. “He said I’m not worthy of you.”

“Why don’t you find that out for yourself?” Felix asks gently. “He’s my soulmate, but he doesn’t own me, you know.”

Changbin swallows, and Felix walks over.

He gets close enough that Changbin can see the freckles across the bridge of his nose, which he’d painstakingly tried to recreate on canvas. His arms wrap around Changbin’s waist, and Changbin is pulled in.

Their mouths slot together in a heated kiss. It doesn’t feel like anything, though, and Changbin belatedly realizes that the setting isn’t _quite_ the convenience store, that all of the candies are blurry, that he’s hearing Felix speak but there’s not any sound, and that it’s like he’s there kissing Felix but also like he’s watching it third person.

He jolts awake to the sound of a beeping alarm.

Chan is already up, pulling his socks on, Jisung blearily rubbing his eyes. The neon numbers on the clock blink _6:30_. Changbin has to resist the urge to shiver uncontrollably. This can’t be happening. This really can’t.

He’s pumped up on adrenaline and exhausted at the same time. He wonders if his encounter with Minho was a dream, too.

And then he looks at the gum on his bedside cabinet and reconciles himself to the fact that _that_ one, at least, was not. He tosses the pack at Jisung and musters up the energy to tiredly smile when Jisung yells in surprise.

“Got it for you at the convenience store last night,” Changbin says.

“You went without me?” Jisung asks, offended. “You should’ve woken me up.”

“Sleep is important, Jisung,” Chan says.

“Says _you_ ,” Jisung grumbles. “Thanks, though, Changbin— ooh, yay, tangerine.”  

Changbin rubs his eyes and resists the urge to flop back down on his bed and stay like that for the rest of the day. Pieces of the dream roll over him in waves, and he kind of wants to run from himself until he reaches the Pacific Ocean and no longer has to face the stupidity of his own subconsciousness.

This kind of stuff doesn’t end well, he _knows_ that. But now that the cover’s been yanked off, he has to look the ugly truth right in the face: whatever he feels for Felix, it’s not platonic. Felix might not be his soulmate, but Changbin’s heart has picked him anyway, and all Changbin can do is wait until the goddamn organ lets him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [rewrite the stars blares in the background]


	5. school life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @stray typous- you're the reason this is up!! 
> 
> tw for a panic attack- from "but in February he panics" to "Jeongin's voice drifts through the speakers"

**[PRESENT]**

 

On the bright side, the entire Felix scenario is only a little more concerning than another recent development— Hyunjin and Jisung are now friends. Changbin isn’t sure when or how that happened, but it’s bad for three reasons: one, Changbin has done a lot of embarrassing shit in his life; two, Hyunjin has been present for almost all of the said embarrassing shit; and three, Jisung is really easy to talk to.

To be fair, it’s not like Hyunjin’s _purposely_ trying to embarrass him. Actually, who the hell is Changbin trying to kid. Hyunjin probably is.

Currently, it’s Saturday noon, and Hyunjin is up on an enlarged window on Changbin’s cracked tablet, hair flattened and sideways. “Don’t you have plans or something?” Changbin asks, when Hyunjin dials him. “Isn’t it Friday night over there in burgerland? Why are you talking to me?”

“You don’t get to diss me about social interaction,” Hyunjin says. The window shifts, and Changbin can see that Hyunjin is sitting on his bed, grey sheets crumpled from his weight. “And anyway, I’m too tired to talk to normal people.”

Changbin isn’t even offended by Hyunjin’s implication that he doesn’t constitute as normal people.

“I can see that,” he says. “Your hair looks like shit.”

Before Hyunjin can book a ticket to Korea to throw a pen at his face, Jisung waltzes over and plops down next to Changbin, or more accurately, on _top_ of Changbin— Jisung is touchy. Changbin is used to it by now, although he’s fairly certain he can’t feel his legs anymore.

“Hey, Hyunjin,” Jisung greets. Then, to Changbin — “What are we doing for lunch?”

“I think Chan brought home fried rice yesterday,” Changbin says.

“I may have eaten that at midnight,” Jisung answers plainly, face slightly guilty.

Changbin sighs. “Well then, the only other things in the communal fridge are prehistoric sandwiches and somebody’s goddamn rock collection…”

“Uh, the rocks are actually Minho’s homemade cupcakes, but close enough.”

So Changbin and Jisung end up going over to one of the cheaper on-campus cafes, dragging the tablet with them. They get noodles and eat outside, even though the weather is chilly and Changbin’s shivering in his hoodie. Jisung seems completely unbothered by the cold, gulping down noodles and rambling about an idea he has for his semester finals project.

“You have your semester finals project assigned already?” Hyunjin asks. “Dude.”

“Prof’s giving it super ahead of time because of length,” Jisung explains. “It has to be twenty thousand words minimum.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts. “This is why I’m not in creative writing. That’s… a lot of words.”

Changbin rolls his eyes, gestures with his chopsticks. “Yeah, Jisung can write half a novel in his sleep, he’ll be just fine.”

“It took less time for Pangea to form than for me to write five hundred words, actually,” Jisung corrects. “But yeah, the idea for it is this dystopian setting, which resembles every other dystopian setting ever… ignore me—”

“No, no,” Hyunjin grins, leaning back. “Tell me about this. I haven’t had a bedtime story since the eighth grade camping trip, where Changbin told this _really_ crappy ghost—”

Changbin rubs his temples. “Fuck you, Jin.”

Hyunjin ignores this and gestures at Jisung to continue.

“Alright,” Jisung says. “So basically, the gist of it is that there’s like, these characters with superpowers, right, and they’re stuck in this facility and being experimented on, and then one day—”

 _“Oh_ ,” Changbin says, realizing something. “Is that the thing you showed me last week?”

Jisung looks kind of embarrassed. “Yeah, but it was just the first draft and it was super rough.”

“Wait, you _already_ wrote twenty thousand words?” Hyunjin mumbles, incredulous. “Fucking _unbelievable_.”

“It was so cool,” Changbin tells Jisung; he’s not a literature major or anything, but he’d been completely invested in the plot. “I actually used it as inspiration for my current art project.”

It’s true. He’s working on a sketch titled _I Am Not_ , and it’s a picture of a girl looking at her reflection, but in the mirror she’s attired in a white uniform and blank expression, chains trailing from her wrists.

On the other side, Hyunjin looks impressed. “Whoa, you got Changbin to get off his ass and draw something for it? Jisung, you need to give me money when you’re famous.”

Jisung ducks his head, but there’s a pleased smile on his face. “I mean, it’s not _that_ good, it’s just an excuse to make subtle commentary about how school sucks creativity out of everyone and how we’re all slaves to the system and existential shit like that.”

Changbin grins. “Yeah, Jisung, hate to break it to you, but the commentary isn’t subtle.”

“Eh, probably. I’m not a subtle person.”

“Send a copy of it to me when you’re done, I want to read it,” Hyunjin says.

Jisung smirks. “One of the characters is based off of Changbin, actually.” He turns to Changbin. “You know that dude who breaks all the gen zeroes out, and he acts all dark and stuff but is super whipped for the sunshine guy? Yeah, that’s you.”

Changbin nearly drops his bowl. “I’m sorry, _what_?”

Hyunjin cackles, and the screen goes black for a second as it lands facedown on the bed. “Dude, you’re so right. Have you ever seen Changbin do aegyo? Like, if he asked me for a cheeseburger, I’d buy him the whole Macca’s franchise. To get him to shut up.”

“No, I haven’t,” Jisung says, sounding a little afraid.

“I will _literally_ kill you,” Changbin tells Hyunjin, but inside he feels dazed. Does Jisung _know_? No— Jisung wouldn’t make fun of him like that. Changbin’s character was portrayed in a fairly good light.

“Don’t,” Hyunjin says. Jisung snorts. “Because if you killed me, then Seungmin would come kill _you_ , and then everybody loses.”  

“Who’s Seungmin?” Jisung asks. Then, “Oh, is he your soulmate?”

A corner of Hyunjin’s mouth quirks upward, and he looks down. “Yeah.”

Jisung’s face is legitimately delighted. Changbin feels like there’s a stone in his stomach; maybe two weeks ago, Changbin had told Hyunjin to _tell him shit about Seungmin_ and not hold back just because Changbin doesn’t have a soulmate. Because Changbin has everything he needs with art and the people closest to him. But now—

“I gotta go,” he says, feeling like he might be sick.

Hyunjin startles. “See you— wait, dude, are you okay?”

Changbin refrains from yelling _hey, is that Park Jinyoung?_ and disconnecting, instead forcing out, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just— I remembered I have a paper due. Uni sucks.”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin says, and Changbin knows that he can probably see through the lie. “It does.”

Changbin disconnects, and then he takes Jisung’s ramen bowl and stacks it in his. Jisung seems wary, but he doesn’t press, like he’s afraid Changbin will implode if he pushes the wrong button.

There’s no paper, that much is obvious. But Changbin gets his bag, which is falling apart, and heads to the library anyway.

His entire self is on-edge. He sighs, drops his face to the table.

“Get it together, Changbin,” he mumbles. “You should be used to this by now.”

Changbin dislikes internal pity parties, so he gets out his drawing. His mind goes to Felix, anyway.

Unfortunately, Changbin had realized his crush too late this time, right around when he and Felix really solidified as friends. Changbin isn’t strong enough to cut Felix out of his life, at this point. He also knows that it wouldn’t be a good decision. Their social circles are interconnected, and besides, there’s a reason he fell for Felix— the guy is bright and optimistic, and Changbin is a good version of himself when he’s with him.

Changbin will make sure his feelings don’t affect the relationship. It’s just— the current circumstances _really fucking suck_.

He looks at his sketch, at the girl in the mirror, blank and broken. Thinks back to the girl in Jisung’s story, kept in the facility, following the same schedule everyday, being fed a specific set of thoughts and guidelines, a complete robot until her world had glitched and her third eye had been opened.

Changbin would like to think he looks himself in the mirror and sees the person he actually is. He would like to think he has made peace with himself. But he knows that isn’t true, just from the way he wants to cut his feelings for Felix out of himself, like a tumor.

Changbin has always wanted to prove his worth. He doesn’t know how, though.

 

**[PAST]**

 

In junior year, Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jeongin all share the same lunch period. They sit at the end of one of the long lunch tables and mess around.

“Can I have some of your bread?” Hyunjin asks, nudging Changbin.

Changbin doesn’t respond, head pillowed on his arms.

“Cool, thanks,” Hyunjin says, and takes off a quarter piece.

“What?” Changbin mumbles, lifting his head up, then notices that a large chunk of his bread is missing. He glares and steals a mouthful of Hyunjin’s noodles in retaliation. They’re disgusting, all crusted over and lukewarm, but he forces it down because _pride_.

“Five-star cuisine, am I right,” Hyunjin says dryly, completely aware of his pain.

Jeongin pokes a chopstick into his own lunch, pre-packaged and frozen and thawed until it no longer resembles real food. Changbin gives Jeongin part of his bread, throwing Hyunjin a pointed look, who in turn looks astounded that Changbin is giving away his food for free.

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin asks. “Are you, like, a Changbin-shaped drone or something?”

“Fuck off, I share,” Changbin grouches. “Just not with you.”

Jeongin snickers, taking a bite of the bread. “That’s true.” Changbin grins, and Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “But Changbin, you seem really out of it today. Are you good?”

Changbin shrugs. “Hmm? Yeah, I’m just not hungry.”

“Can I have more of your bread then?” Hyunjin asks jokingly, and Changbin shrugs and shoves it toward him. Hyunjin’s eyebrows nearly fly off his face, and he shoves it back. “Dude, this is weird. You’re being weird. I’m leaving this alternate universe now.”

And then the subject is dropped. Changbin’s appetite reverts back semi-normal two days later, but that doesn’t prevent both Jeongin and Hyunjin from asking periodically if he’s okay. He always says yes. He’s pretty sure it’s the truth.

\---

Well, maybe he’s not _completely_ okay. But he’s not going to admit that, even to himself.

Talk of standardized testing and college and careers increases exponentially after the summer is over, and Changbin flounders. In careers— nobody lists out being an artist. And Changbin has already made up his mind, but sometimes he wishes that he hadn’t. Wishes art was just a side hobby, and when someone asked him what he wanted to be, he could honestly say _, doctor_. Or, _computer engineer_. Or, _lawyer_.

“I am so done with everything,” Hyunjin declares, setting his tray down. “Did that dude come to your class today? The one from whatever university?”

Jeongin shakes his head. Changbin nods.

Hyunjin sighs exaggeratedly, ruffles Jeongin’s hair. “You’re so lucky, you don’t have to worry about this stuff yet.”

“Amen,” Changbin says.

“Anyway, I didn’t pay that much attention,” Hyunjin continues. “He had this really large bald spot shaped like an apple, it was kind of distracting.”

Changbin snorts. “You just don’t want to think about your future.”

“That too,” Hyunjin says. “But it was shaped like an apple, did you notice?”

Jeongin winces. “Was it really boring? And long?”

“Dude, it was long as hell, he droned on the whole morning,” Hyunjin says. “I mean, I already know what my plan is, I don’t need him to tell me. I’m going overseas to LA to study business.”

Hyunjin would be good at business— honestly, with a face like that, Changbin is certain that Hyunjin could seal any deal he wanted. And Hyunjin’s always been better with money than him— in middle school, he made maybe five hundred dollars off this gummy bear operation that may or may not have been slightly illegal.

“Does this plan have anything to do with a Kim Seungmin?” Changbin asks, just to mock.

Jeongin grins, metal braces flashing, and leans forward. “Does it?”

Hyunjin blushes, looks down at the table. “Maybe,” he grumbles, and glares at Changbin, who’s got a shit-eating smirk plastered on his face. “You know what, shut up.”

Seungmin is overseas in LA. (Changbin knows that Hyunjin has a thing for Seungmin speaking English, and teases him sometimes for it.) Changbin’s been present for maybe two or three of Hyunjin and Seungmin’s video calls, something that they were allowed to do starting in ninth grade, and it’s— it’s—

Changbin _wants_ that. Discussing a future with someone, having someone by your side to help you with what road you’re going to take, who you _literally_ share half of your soul with.

On a logical level, Changbin knows Hyunjin doesn’t have it perfect by any means, because the schools in the US are competitive and Hyunjin talks about how the language barrier is going to be a huge handicap, but Changbin still can’t help but see the scenario in an idealized light. The grass is greener on the other side, after all.

“What about you, Jeonginnie?” Hyunjin asks. “You got any plans for the future?”

Jeongin shrugs. “I’m gonna do something in STEM,” he says carelessly. “And sing while I’m at it. I have time to figure it out, I’m just going to keep studying for now.”

“That’s a good mindset,” Changbin suddenly says, and Jeongin looks surprised.

“Well, I mean, we all know what _you’re_ going to do,” Jeongin says, grinning. “ _You’re_ going to be a famous artist, and then I’m going to brag that I got to know _Seo Changbin_ in high school.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Changbin says, blushing furiously. Hyunjin cackles.

The thing is, Hyunjin and Jeongin might have faith in him, but it’s easier to believe in a journey when you’re watching it from the sidelines.

Sometimes Changbin is afraid. There’s a very clear system, a formula to success, that his parents have constantly told him about. They got a good education, went to the best university in Korea and studied computer science, and then worked their way up from there. And now, they have a nice house and good food on the table every night and can afford vacations every other summer.

Art is nowhere part of that equation.

So Changbin has this thought, now. That he _needs_ to get into Seoul University. That it’s the only way he’ll get to success. Maybe he wants to study art, which deviates way off from the beaten path, but he’s at least subscribing a little bit to the way things are supposed to be.

Besides, it’s hard to believe in any other way when everyone around him is panicking about grades, and looking up Top 10 lists, and seeming so sure about where they want to go and what they want to do. Changbin envies Jeongin’s seeming nonchalance, his immunity to that kind of atmosphere; was Changbin at least a little more carefree back in his sophomore year? He doesn’t know.

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Hyunjin is saying to Jeongin. “We’re going to forge Changbin’s signatures, and then we’re going to sell stick figure or paint splatter drawings on eBay—”

“What the fuck did I miss,” Changbin says, snapping back to reality.

“We’re just making some economic decisions,” Jeongin says innocently— Hyunjin’s Satanic personality is rubbing off the kid. “Don’t mind, don’t mind.”

He says it with a smile, but underneath that, Changbin thinks he might look concerned.

\---

Sometime in November, Changbin stops being able to sleep.

He blocks his days into strict sections, studying and drawing with minimal breaks in between. He gets a job to pay for his future tuition (because he doesn’t know if his parents are going to make good on their threat to not contribute), around the same time that standardized tests really start to loom in the horizons.

Changbin has no choice. There’s only so much time, no matter how hard he works. He starts excusing himself when Hyunjin or Jeongin ask if he wants to hang out. When that stops being enough, he pushes his bedtime later and gets up earlier in the mornings. His parents have no idea that while they’re sleeping at 4AM, Changbin is downstairs, yawning through mouthfuls of cereal.

“Dude,” Hyunjin asks, one lunch. “Are you wearing makeup?”

Changbin startles. “What?”

“I mean, no issue if you are,” Hyunjin hastily says. “It’s just… your under eyes look really dark. And stuff. I don’t… I don’t know.”

Jeongin leans forward. “They kind of do,” he says. “How much sleep did you get last night, Changbin?”

“Four, five hours.” Jesus Christ, what are they so worried about? He can handle it. “Is my face really that bad? Hyunjin, I swear if this is one of your ugly jokes again—”

“Oh my god,” Hyunjin mutters, exasperated. “You know what, Changbin, come get ice cream with us this afternoon. No excuses. And then get some fucking _sleep_.”

Changbin’s mind is already flooded with alarms— after school he needs to get this essay done for his history class and study for a math test tomorrow, and then he needs to finish up this drawing that he told someone he’d do for them, and then he has to prep at night because his pretest scores weren’t high enough.

“It’s too cold for ice cream,” he says. “Hyunjin, it’s fucking February.”

“And your point is,” Hyunjin snaps. “Dude, come on. You’re not getting out of this.”

Changbin gnaws on his lip. “Fine.”

He goes for ice cream. He pulls an all-nighter for the next day.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

Fortunately, Changbin’s a little better at taking care of himself now.

“Alright,” he mumbles to himself, when the words on the page start blurring. “I guess it’s time to take a break.”

He gets up from where he’s in at the stacks and walks outside, hands in his pockets. There’s a slight smile on his mouth, unbeknownst to him— the sun today is particularly bright, a faded sliver of crescent moon next to it in the sky. He wonders if he has enough money to go get coffee.

Changbin decides not to. He’s been pretty good at budgeting so far, but he won’t take his chances.

“Changbin!”

Only one person pronounces his name like that, accented and deep. Changbin despises that he _notices_ this stuff now. He turns around and there’s Felix, a red scarf wrapped around his neck, jeans more holes than fabric. Changbin likes that style, actually, owns a lot of ripped jeans, but it makes it hard not to look at Felix’s legs.

 _Don’t look at his legs_ , he chides himself. _Remember Minho_. “Hey.”

Felix beams at him. “I just got off my shift at Tik Tok, you want a burned pastry?” he asks. “It doesn’t taste too bad, actually.”

“Sure,” Changbin says warily, and accepts it when Felix gives it to him, their hands bumping together. He takes a bite. “I’d still give it a solid eight out of ten.” The pastry itself was clearly made with skill, just a little overbaked.

“I’d give it a seven. But, what are you doing here?” Felix asks. “On your way back from a class?”

“No, I was at the library,” Changbin says. He checks his watch— it’s five in the afternoon, he’ll probably be in there for awhile longer. “Studying and contemplating the logistics of an early death.”

“A whole mood,” Felix says, grinning. “Mind if I study with you?”

This is what Changbin means. That he can’t extricate himself from Felix now; their lives are too tangled together. He nods. “Go ahead.”

So they do. Felix doesn’t talk much, as it’s a library, but he’s mildly distracting nonetheless. He bites his pens. And his lips. It’s not a good habit— one time, Felix told him it made his lips really chapped in the winter— but it makes them really red and full. Kissable. (God, is that a word?)

The net amount of stuff Changbin gets done is still about the same, as he puts in more effort on keeping his eyes on the paper, but he’s very on-edge by the time the operation is done.

Felix’s opinion is a little bit different.

“I was actually productive,” he says. “I think your studiousness rubbed off me. Like, osmosis.”

Changbin grimaces. “I don’t think that’s how osmosis works.”

“Besides the drosophila unit, I completely zoned out in high school bio. But seriously, can we do this more? Like, if it’s not bothersome? You help me focus.”

Changbin withers internally. His mind spins. If Felix can say so genuinely and unabashedly that Changbin helps him focus, then it’s probably true, and it also probably means that Changbin doesn’t distract him at all. Which is a good thing… because Felix has a soulmate. Of course. What is Changbin thinking?

And anyway, Changbin hadn’t _minded_ Felix’s presence. It’d been— nice. An awkward sort of nice. Warm.

“Why not,” Changbin says, and Felix smiles like the sun.

\---

So studying together becomes a relatively stable thing.

Funnily enough, they don’t study in each other’s dorms, despite being neighbors. Changbin gets this sticky, uncomfortable feeling when he sees Minho, something that feels like a mixture of envy and guilt, and Felix can’t study within five feet of Jisung and Chan. It just isn’t something that he’s capable of. Exhibit A:

“Teach me Australian slang,” Jisung begs.

Felix laughs and looks at Chan. “What should we teach him?”

“Jisung knows some English, so—” Chan bites his lip. “Um… how about arvo?” Jisung cocks his head. “It means afternoon.”

“And mate,” Felix adds. “That’s like, your stereotypical one.”

“Good arvo, mate,” Jisung says, and by the delighted way he says it, Changbin knows this is not the last time this phrase will come out of his mouth.

“Jisung, it’s eight in the morning,” Changbin says, but Jisung ignores this in favor of taking Chan and Felix’s critiques on getting a more authentic accent. His roommates, Changbin swears.

Add Felix, and they get on like a literal house on fire.

But Changbin and Felix don’t stay explicitly in the library— they end up going to Tik Tok, too, because despite Felix’s hatred of the coffee he’s also slightly addicted to it, and anyway, Felix likes it better in there. Less forced quiet. Changbin has to admit the atmosphere is good, the background noise like elevator music.

According to Felix, he _is_ more productive, but today seems to be an exception. He hasn’t stopped staring out the window.

“Earth to Felix,” Changbin says. “You good in there?”

Felix’s chin drops. “I’m supposed to compose something with Impressionistic characteristics,” he says. “But it isn’t happening.”

Changbin knows relatively zero about music theory, but he vaguely knows about the classical periods. “Do you not like Impressionist music, or something?”

“Mm? No, I do, my favorite period is Baroque, but Impressionist is pretty good. It’s just, Debussy did _everything_. How am I supposed to measure up to that?” Felix groans. “He’s the Clair de Lune guy, by the way. Nobody gives a shit about Ravel.”

“What’s Ravel?”

“See, my point.”

Changbin smiles, slight. “I like Clair de Lune.”

“Of course you do, everybody and their mom and their pet chinchilla twice removed likes Clair de Lune,” Felix says. “It’s definitely very good. I like his Arabesques better, but it’s less iconic in mainstream media.”

“You like a lot of music, don’t you?” Changbin observes.

Felix gnaws his lip. “If it’s good, I’ll listen to it,” he says. “Any genre is okay. Except maybe country. I draw the line if it’s fucking country.”

Felix’s eyes glint whenever he talks about music. Changbin would probably look the same way if he were less private about his art. Anyway, it’s something that Changbin likes about Felix (he likes a lot of things about Felix, but he’s attempting to ignore that fact.) How his whole face can light up with something he’s passionate about.

“What’s your favorite song?” Changbin asks, clenching his fist to try and get rid of the intrusive thought.

“Dude, I can’t believe you’re asking me that question,” Felix groans. “Um— I have, like, a hundred of those? But if I had to pick _one_ , it’d probably be A Little Braver. It’s this one English song, I don’t know if you know it.”

“I don’t.”

“Maybe it’s not the best music I’ve ever heard, even if the piano backing is lit, but… I listened to it a lot when I came to Korea,” Felix says. “I’m less addicted to it now, but you know. Yeah. I don’t know.”

“Let me search it up,” Changbin says, and pulls out his phone and earbuds.

The song is something soft (Felix is right, the piano backing is amazing) and nostalgic, like the music video, all blurry lights and faded memories. Changbin can’t understand the lyrics, but he’s pretty sure he knows what they’re about. A love song to someone, or maybe a love song to oneself.

“It’s really nice,” Felix says suddenly.

“Yeah, it is,” Changbin agrees. He wishes he were Jisung. He wishes he had more words than _nice_.

“No, I mean— it’s nice that I can talk about music with someone,” Felix rambles. “Is that lame? I don’t know, probably.”

Something twists in Changbin. “I don’t know that much about music, though.”

“No, but that’s part of it,” Felix says. “I don’t give a shit about theory, just the feeling. And you get that, even though I know you’d probably rather talk about art. I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point. That song always makes me weirdly emotional, even if I’m not physically listening to it.”

Changbin stares down at the tabletop, registers that he’s gotten absolutely nothing done in the past ten minutes but not being able to make himself care at all.

This is dangerous. This is so dangerous. Knowing that Felix isn’t made for him, but feeling like his own pieces fit so well with Felix’s jagged sides. Felix, who radiates a warmth that’s so real it feels almost tangible. Changbin pulls Felix’s sheet music toward him and studies the half page of notes.

“It doesn’t have any feeling to it,” Felix says. “That’s the problem. It’ll probably get a good grade, though.”

Sometimes Changbin wishes that were him. That he’d taken the smoother road, that he’d gotten all the logistics right, become a computer engineer and didn’t go around wanting things that he couldn’t have; maybe he’d feel hollow, but it’d be easier. But he’s the exact opposite.

Silently, he slides the piece of paper back and goes back to reading about the properties of oil paint. He feels like he’s out of control. The tune of A Little Braver floats through his head, no words to accompany it, just a melodic river of _could bes_ and _might have beens_.

 

**[PAST]**

 

One of the aspects of Changbin’s personality is that he’s endlessly stubborn.

It’s not a good or bad thing, although he’s had several people tell him that it’s going to be his downfall. But when it comes to his principles, there’s no room for him to budge, not even an inch. It’s either running a mile or going nowhere at all.

“I don’t understand,” his mom says, exasperated. “What’s wrong with working at Mirror?”  

With his parents, Changbin no longer fights with them. They’re pleasant to each other, and underneath all of the words they don’t say, they love each other deeply. But there’s an element of trust that isn’t there anymore, replaced by an understanding that their values have diverged to the point that they can no longer walk each other’s roads.

“I don’t _want_ to work at Mirror,” Changbin says. Working at Mirror defeats the whole point of working— if people have the time and money to go golfing and drinking on the weekends, they can carry their own golf bags and get their own drinks. “Besides, it’s fine. I know how to get to the bakery. You won’t have to do anything at all.”

“I’m just worried about you going to that other side of town.”

Changbin sets his mouth. “It’ll be fine. I know how to take care of myself.”

Hyunjin gets it a little bit more, although he’s probably at least a little bit perplexed why Changbin would want a job that’s relatively far away from where he lives and doesn’t pay as well as some other places.

“But like, it’s cool,” Hyunjin says. “I’ll visit you on the job. Save me some free pastries.”

“Don’t visit me, you’d get me fucking fired within point two seconds of walking in the door.”

The thing is, Changbin doesn’t need a job. He doesn’t need spare pocket change. His parents could pay for his college tuition twice over if Changbin just chose a major they liked.

And sometimes he’s ashamed, sometimes he wonders if he’s being delusional, going after these dreams. Maybe he should just do computer science, or statistics. He’s not terrible at math, although after he’s neglected it so long, he’s not too good at it either.

But he wants to do things for himself so badly at the same time.

Also, there’s this guy at the bakery. His eyes are sharp, arms covered in intricate tattoos— they’re not _real_ tattoos, he drew them on, and Changbin is fascinated. He wonders if the man drew them or if his soulmate did.

“It’s not a damn crush,” he tells Hyunjin, when Hyunjin gets a wary look at the starstruck way Changbin speaks of him. “It’s like— it’s your thing with Park Jinyoung. Admiration.”

“That’s not a good example, I totally have a crush on Park Jinyoung.”

“You let Seungmin hear you say that?”

“No, we’ve agreed on this issue,” Hyunjin says, because he’s insufferable. “He’s also got a crush on Wonpil, from Day6. We’re each other’s consolation prizes.”

\---

Changbin likes working at the bakery.

He doesn’t know how to describe it, but it’s in the way flour settles all over him by the time he’s done with a shift, even though that sounds gross and is hell to get out of his clothes. He likes observing the way people talk in here, likes to memorize features to add into his sketches later.

People are so _carefree_ here, it seems. Full of shoulder shrugs and I-don’t-give-a-shits. He’d like to think it rubs off him, although, at the end of the day, he’s still stuck in some sort of terrifying limbo.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says to himself one day, when it’s two in the morning and he can no longer read the problems in front of him. “What the hell am I doing?”

He never talks about it, doesn’t even know the terminology for it until a whole while later, but in February he panics. Snow is falling thick onto the rooftops, and he feels cold all over, even though he’s inside. He sweats uncontrollably. He feels like he can’t breathe.

Changbin allows himself to go to bed early, but he can’t fall asleep. He shakes under the covers, stomach in knots.

Eventually, he ends up dialing Jeongin.

Jeongin picks up in four rings. “Hello?” he asks, tone warm, but slightly confused. “Hey, Changbin? Is this Changbin? Uh— can you hear me?”

Changbin’s breath comes out in hard puffs. “Jeongin,” he says. His voice is unsteady.

“Crap, Changbin, are you alright?” Jeongin asks, sounding much more concerned now. “Are you sick? You live next to Hyunjin, right—”

“No,” Changbin whispers. “I can’t talk to Hyunjin right now.”

There’s something about this that Changbin knows would scare Hyunjin out of his mind. _Changbin_ is scared out of his mind, and just— he can’t explain it, but he can’t tell Hyunjin. Because Hyunjin is his best friend. Changbin feels that he is heading toward oblivion right now, and he doesn’t want want Hyunjin to follow.

“You’re okay, though, right?” Jeongin asks, desperate for verification. “You’re not in immediate danger?”

Changbin doesn’t answer for a second. Then, “I’m not,” he says clearly.

He wraps his arms around his legs and pulls them up to his chest, breathing less shaky. “Sorry for bothering you,” he adds. “I don’t know what that was.”

“No, dude, don’t apologize. Do you— like— need anything?” This is something Changbin, Jeongin, and Hyunjin all share, an inability to ever really talk about feelings. It’s just way simpler to repress. “I can sing something for you, if you want?”

“That’d be nice, yeah,” Changbin says.

Jeongin’s voice drifts through the speakers, an old song that sounds vaguely familiar, a little tinny and warped by the bad connection, but pretty nonetheless. Changbin recollects himself, sticks a wad of mint gum into his mouth, gets up and walks over to his desk. After a few minutes, he tells Jeongin _thanks,_   _your voice is great_ , and Jeongin tells him no problem.

Changbin hangs up, rakes his hands through his hair. What _was_ that?

He’s got this feeling more and more, now. That he doesn’t know where he’s going. There was a compass in him, and then one day it cracked, before shattering completely.

There’s a palpable fear of not being good enough. He’s running as hard as he can, and toward what? He has no faith that he’s going anywhere. Maybe he’s just running into a dead end. Sometime along the way, through dozens of practice worksheets and articles on testing strategies, a sense of despair had set in. Seoul University, a deep part of him knows, isn’t a promise of success.

It’s a way to get his parents to make peace with him. And it used to be a way for Changbin to make peace with himself. But now— he isn’t so sure.

\---

The reminder that it’s okay to go at your own pace comes in the form of Im Jaebum, the guy at the bakery who had initially attracted Changbin’s attention. He ends up being cooler than Changbin had even initially presumed.

Changbin is unfortunately a little starstruck, so he has a hard time approaching him in the first place, but after he does he is glad he did.

“Did you draw the designs on your arm?” he blurts out, as he’s cleaning up.

Jaebum looks down, like he’s surprised they’re there. “Yeah,” he says. “They’re mostly for my soulmate… reminders. Of things.”

Changbin ducks his head. “They’re really good.”

“You draw too, don’t you?” Jaebum says suddenly. “I saw you add a little design to a paper bag when this girl who was crying ordered. Or maybe I’m wrong.”

“No, no, you’re right,” Changbin says, and that’s the start.

He learns pieces of information slowly— that Jaebum wanted to be an artist too, but he’d gotten derailed in college due to poor health. His soulmate, an overseas dancer, was struggling with money, and so neither of them could visit each other— both are having enough trouble paying rent.

Jaebum has been working at this place for five years. His shifts are full to Changbin’s part-time. He sells pieces of art online, as a street vendor. His work has been featured in two exhibits, neither of which made it off the ground.

Changbin’s parents would be appalled. Changbin himself has never admired someone more in his life, except for maybe Kim Woojin.

“You’re really good, too,” Jaebum says. “Man, you’re in high school? I was drawing stick figures compared to this back then.”

Changbin shakes his head. “I’ve still got a lot of room to improve.”

“Well, _yeah_. Parts of this definitely suck—” Jaebum isn’t someone to sugarcoat his words “— but there’s a shit ton of potential. You’ve got style.”

Strange. Three months after Changbin starts working at the bakery, Jaebum gets an offer from overseas, a state away from his dancer soulmate; Jaebum doesn’t cry, but Changbin has no such luck, and is red-eyed and puffy-faced as he wishes him farewell.

There’s a note neatly tucked in his apron that he finds a week later, neatly typed up.

_Changbin—_

_I think both of us are better with drawings than words, but I’m really glad to have met you._

_You seem really stressed sometimes. And sometimes you talk shit about yourself, without ever really explicitly saying what’s bothering you. I guess I’ll take a shot in the dark, though, and say that I was confused in high school too. I had no idea where I wanted to go. Actually, I’m still really confused._

_You don’t need to know all the answers right away. Someday, you’ll find everything you need to know, and while you’re getting there, you might fall down and make mistakes, you might run into a couple of dead ends, but there’s always time. It’s always possible to pick yourself up and keep going. Ah… that’s so cliche…_

_But you’re doing well, alright? Remember that always. You’re doing well._

_—Jaebum_

To Changbin’s horror, he cries _again_.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

The note is tucked between one of Changbin’s books, worn and soft, some of the ink chipping off of the paper. Sometimes it’s nice to be told that you’re doing well.

Jisung is sprawled out on the floor, face buried in his textbook pages. Changbin nudges him with his foot, except he might accidentally have hit the ribs because Jisung groans and curls away in pain.

“Sorry,” Changbin says, with as much insincerity as he can muster.

Chan bursts into the room at the moment, waving his phone. “Woojin just texted me that pizza’s sixty percent off today at Matropizza,” he says. “It’s the pre-midterms sale.”

Jisung is off the floor in a flash. “Changbin, you get it. Because you run fast.”

“What kind of fucking logic—” Changbin starts, but is cut off by Jisung pushing bills into his hand and then shoving him out the door. Changbin looks at the closed door, then sighs.

“Are you getting pizza too?” Felix asks from behind him, and Changbin nearly jumps out of his skin. “The sale’s already started, so we actually have to run.”

“I cannot believe _all_ of you—”

So this is how Changbin ends up spending his Wednesday night, sprinting across campus with Felix. Felix is taller than him, and therefore his strides are longer; it’s inconvenient as hell, but Changbin refuses to show any weakness. The line snakes out of the door of Matropizza ( _our taste is endlessly layered!_ ), but it could be worse. A few minutes of standing in line, and it adds on another five hundred meters of people.

Felix groans. “We’re going to be here for an hour at least.”

They stand in line, and Changbin is cold, so Felix offers him his jacket. It’s a nice gesture— Felix-like, definitely— but Changbin refuses, because (1) Felix’s jacket would probably swallow his entire body and (2) his mind would take that and make it really, really weird.

“Wanna play Chopsticks?” Felix asks.

“Sure.”

But Chopsticks devolves quickly because Felix keeps on cheating and not adding up numbers correctly, citing that he failed math in eleventh grade as his excuse. They end up playing this English game called Avocado instead, and Changbin feels like he’s eight years old again in summer camp, but it’s not a bad feeling.

Behind him, people have brought cardboard boxes and are playing poker.

“This… feels like Black Friday,” Felix murmurs. “It’s not as bad as over in America, though. Americans are crazy.”

He sounds like he’s talking to himself, which is probably the case, as Changbin has no idea what Black Friday is. The line crawls forward inch by inch. “How many pizzas do we buy?” Changbin asks.

“Fuck, we probably should’ve considered that earlier. Eh, well, we got time to figure it out,” Felix says, and gestures at the line. “How much money do you have on you? Minho just gave me some bills and then shoved me out the door.”

Odd. “That’s what Jisung did to me, too.”

They count bills, looking up Matropizza’s online menu, and Felix cackles as Changbin calculates the sales wrong and ends up having to resort to his phone calculator. They have enough for three of the large pizzas, two topping on each.

“I think Woojin’s coming over,” Changbin says, “and then there’s Jisung, and Chan—”

“Chan likes pineapples on his pizza, so we should get one of those,” Felix says. Changbin stares at Felix in disbelief, and Felix shrugs. “I know. It’s disgusting. But yeah, there’s the two of us, plus who you said, and then Minho. So we each get half.”

To be honest, it’s probably a little concerning that all of them can eat half pizzas with no problem. “What kind do you want?”

Felix shrugs. “Probably with chicken on top?”

“Oh, that stuff’s good, I’ll get that too.”

“Cool, we can split ours then,” Felix beams. “I know Minho prefers his like a goddamn vegetable stew or something like that. Honestly, what even is the point of pizza if he’s going to make it healthy…”

Changbin rolls his eyes. “The point of pizza is to gain ten pounds after eating it.”

“See, you get it,” Felix grins. There’s a comfortable moment of silence, and then he adds, “The universe screwed up when it made Minho and I soulmates.”

Those words nearly knock Changbin off his axis, not just because they’re unexpected. “What.”

He knows that there’s something up between Felix and Minho— they’re not normal soulmates, certainly— but Changbin doesn’t want to think about that, especially while he’s trying to repress his own feelings.

“It’s true, though,” Felix says, with a forced smile. “I mean, the guy stores his clothes in _bundles_. Clearly, something went wrong here.”

“Don’t— don’t joke about stuff like that,” Changbin stammers.

“Well, I don’t know how else to deal with it,” Felix snaps. Someone coughs from behind them, and Changbin realizes that the line has moved while they’ve stayed still, and hastily pushes Felix a couple of steps forward. “I love Minho, but not like that. Not the way I’m supposed to. Is that weird? I’ve been told I’m ‘defying god’s will’ _one_ too many times for it to be okay.”

Changbin is at loss for words. He stays silent.

Felix rakes his hand through his hair. “Please tell me you don’t care,” he says tiredly. “Changbin, it doesn’t affect you. Don’t give me shit about it.”

Changbin doesn’t know what to say, when Felix is looking at him with that face of trepidation, like Changbin will tell him off. And— the worst thing is, Changbin _is_ weirded out. Because soulmates are perfect, your guaranteed other half. It’s something that, perhaps, he’s always wanted a little bit for himself.

Like Hyunjin and Seungmin.

“Well, it’s not like I’m that normal either,” he says, not even quite sure what he’s saying. “I don’t even have a soulmate.”

It’s weird that they’re only talking about this now, which is something that Changbin doesn’t want to look deeper into. Because soulmates are such a mainstream thing that it should have come up by earlier. Unless they were both, for some reason, subconsciously _avoiding_ the subject.

Felix’s eyes widen. “Like Jisung?”

“Yeah, sort of. Except I never had one. That’s the difference.”

It feels like fate is trying to tell him something here. He wants to tell fate to shut up.

“I’m not judging you,” Changbin clarifies. “A lot of things make more sense now, actually.”

“Okay, thank you,” Felix says, and the world goes back to its regular rhythm. He laughs awkwardly, changes the subject. “Dude, I think I can actually see the counter now! How long have we been in here, like, three hours? Five centuries?”

“One and a half hours, actually,” Changbin says, checking his watch. “You’re just impatient.”

“Jackass, you were complaining about the wait too.”

Another half hour, and the pizza is finally in their hands. Changbin immediately feels bad for complaining when he sees the state of the cashier, who looks like she’s two seconds away from jumping out the window and moving to a remote island in the middle of the Pacific. They walk back to the dorms, Felix trying not to drop the three bottles of Coke and the package of breadsticks he’s holding, while Changbin clutches the pizza boxes to his chest and hopes he doesn’t trip over a rock or something.

“You guys are the best,” Jisung yells, when they finally make it back. Felix drops the stuff on the floor and collapses on the bed.

“I hate you,” Changbin says. “It was like the Hunger Games out there.”

“That _better_ not have been a pun, Changbin.”

He eats pizza while Chan and Woojin attempt to teach some kind of overly complicated murder mystery game that no one ends up understanding. Changbin would never voice his thoughts, because he would feel lame and probably implode of embarrassment, but he’s so happy.

Even if the reason for the sale in the first place _is_ to kick of midterms season.

They make fun of Minho for his vegetable-laden pizza and Chan’s pineapple topping preference. Everything rolls off Minho like water while Chan protests that tomatoes are technically a fruit too, is it so wrong to add another one?

Changbin is full by the third slice. He wipes his hands on his jeans even though there are napkins right next to him, accidentally making eye contact with Minho while at it. Minho doesn’t seem to have any natural animosity toward him, and it makes Changbin fear what that episode at the convenience store was _really_ about. He has the confirmation that Felix and Minho aren’t— they aren’t—

“Can you teach me how to fold your clothing bundles?” he blurts out, to derail his train of thought.

“How do you know about those?” Minho demands, looking shocked. “Actually, why not? You’re the one person doesn’t give me shit about that.”

Felix falls over laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to everyone who is still aboard: i'm grateful, i'm sorry about the matropizza pun and my lazy sporadic writing, and i promise that i'll get this finished. thank you for your faith in me, you have no idea. 
> 
> whoever you are out there, have a nice day. i believe in you and love you. fighting!!


	6. scene stealers

**[PRESENT]**

 

Changbin is in art class, carefully painting in the girl’s irises. He’s a little proud of the color scheme he has going on— snow white, sapphire blue, midnight black, natural-looking on the outside of the mirror, yet synthetic and hollow inside of it.

“ _Dude_ ,” Jiyun says, staring at his drawing. “ _Nice._ Like, the whole dystopian vibe you’ve got in there.”

Changbin rubs his neck, a little embarrassed. “It’s based off my roommate’s story.”

“Where can I get a roommate like that?” Jiyun asks. “All mine does is text her soulmate and complain that we’re out of cereal.”

Changbin laughs, and realizes that Minho is laughing along, having tuned in to the conversation at this moment. “Is the story Jisung’s?” Minho asks.

Changbin nods. “Yeah.”

“He’s such a good writer,” Minho says wistfully. “I’d trade every Faber Castell I owned for his ability to do description. Did you know my mom had to pass my college essays around her _entire office_ to edit before she deemed it even slightly acceptable?”

“Writers,” Jiyun agrees, attempting to get a fleck of paint off her wrist. “How the hell do they operate?”

Changbin could ask the same thing about musicians, but keeps his mouth shut because he knows his mind would drift immediately to Felix, and he doesn’t want that. Maybe it’s his imagination, but Felix has been touchier with him lately. As in, Felix’s words remain a safe platonic timbre, but his body language speaks something else.

“ _HEY_ ,” the professor announces, and Changbin startles and drops his paintbrush, dark blue splattering onto his face. Jiyun snickers; Minho hides a smile.

“I’m sure you’re aware that all of your other classes are assigning you semester final projects—”

“Oh god, not her too,” Jiyun quietly groans. “I’m going to die.”

“— so I figured I’d keep you updated, too, since all of you seem so concerned about your marks. The theme of the project is the word _intertwined_ , and you’re pretty much free to do whatever— just showcase your abilities, what you learned this year, etcetera.”

“Wow, I learned something?” Changbin murmurs back. Jiyun giggles. “Why do I still suck, then?”

“Another note: those with the best pieces will have a chance to be featured in the MMCA winter exhibition.” At this, the dead-eyed looks turned into interested ones, and the corner of the professor’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah, _that_ one. Don’t get your hopes up. Just work as hard as possible.”

And then she hops off her desk and disappears, leaving the class to break into confused and excited chatter.

“Oh my god,” Jiyun breathes. _“MMCA?_ ”

“No way,” Changbin echoes. He’s resigned himself long ago to the fact that big opportunities don’t just come; but here is one, right in front of his face. “Shit, what am I going to draw?”

 _MMCA_. One of Seoul’s famous art museums. If one of Changbin’s paintings were selected for the exhibition, he’d be set for life. Deep down, he knows that his chances of getting in are less than one percent, but just the dream of it takes his breath away.

Jiyun says, “Changbin, it’s like you’re made for this, it fits you so well. You’re always really symbolic with your prompts. People love that stuff.”

Changbin’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “What?”

Jiyun doesn’t answer his question. “So then what am _I_ going to do? _Intertwined_? What does that even mean? I’m going to end up turning in two pieces of string tied together and be like, _yes, this is my entry, I’m a failure to humanity._ ”  

“I mean, that’s not too bad,” Changbin tries.

Jiyun just _looks_ at him. “Really.”

“Maybe the strings…” Changbin stammers, “represent how we’re all tied together, in society, perhaps in ways we don’t expect— yeah okay, nevermind.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Jiyun says, looking amused. “But this is what I mean. You just _get_ it. I’m only good for drawing pretty room decorations.”

“Lend me your mind, Changbin,” Minho pipes up, “I need an idea for this, too.”

Changbin thinks that Minho is the one who has the highest chance of making it in. Sometimes Changbin despises himself for his thoughts— he compares himself to Minho, and wonders if he’ll ever be that good; he compares himself to Jiyun, and hates her, yet takes a sick pleasure in knowing that she probably compares herself to him too.

“Both of you don’t need the help,” he says, the words burning his tongue.

Changbin doesn’t tell them that the only thing he has in mind for ‘intertwined’ is _soulmates_. He never really uses the soulmate concept, even though every famous artist has at least one work that features the idea, and he figures, why not use it this time?

(Once upon a time, Changbin was revolted at the idea of jumping on the bandwagon, of drawing something with the expectation of fame and validation in mind. _I was young then_ , his mind protests. _And anyway, it’s just soulmates_.)

(He forgets, however, that it’s the young that haven’t had their eyes closed yet.)

\---

“MMCA?” Felix asks, when Changbin tells him about it. “What’s that?”

Oh. It’s such a staple in artist culture that he forgets other people aren’t aware of it. “It’s an acronym for a museum,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. But what are you going to draw?”

Changbin shrugs. “I don’t know… I’m still thinking about it.”

That’s a lie.

He can see it in his mind’s eye, and it’s going to be big and huge and he’s going to work his ass off on it. But when he’d told Jisung his idea, Jisung’s reaction had seemed… lukewarm, at best. Changbin was hurt initially, but then he chalked it up to it being because of Jisung’s own soulmate experience; since Felix isn’t in a conventional situation himself, Changbin won’t make the mistake of telling him too.

Changbin can picture his drawing so clearly, anyway. It’s perfect. He never has that feeling about his other ideas.

“Well, whatever you do, I’m sure it’ll be amazing,” Felix says cheerfully, and Changbin likes that, likes how Felix doesn’t understand the gravity of this opportunity.

“You have too much faith in me,” Changbin answers. _Never lose it_. “Anyway, _focus_ , I know you hate math but you’re not getting away with this—”

“Fine, _mom_.”

Felix does turn his face back to his calculus worksheet, though, mouth turning down in an expression of exaggerated disgust. Changbin catches himself staring at the curve of his lips a minute after he does it and rips his gaze away.

Impressively, Felix manages to stick it out for an entire forty minutes before speaking again. “Changbin,” he asks, “can you help me?”

He slides the worksheet over. Changbin looks. He’d done this course back in high school, and has to take a moment to recall the curriculum.. “Oh,” he says, and taps his pen. “This is the trig formula for inverse tangent. You were trying to u-substitute.”

“ _Oh_ , that tan negative one thing,” Felix says. A thousand miles away in Russia, Euler rolls over in his grave. “Thanks, Changbin.”

“No problem.”

“ _Yes_ problem. God, I hate math. I’m so dumb.”

“You’re not _dumb_ ,” Changbin protests automatically— he hates when people say that about themselves, probably because the thought occurs so frequently in his own mind.  “When would you ever use this, besides?”

“I don’t know, maybe I’ll have to take the antiderivative of my violin someday,” Felix says hysterically. “The f-holes kind of look like integral signs, right? Oh my god, they do.”

Changbin raises an eyebrow. “What the actual hell—”

“I can _never_ play the instrument again—”

“Alright, alright,” Changbin says, laughing. “Take a break, you’re going delusional.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Felix groans, and shoves his textbook aside and plants his face on the table.

Hair splays out on the desk like a halo, and Changbin squishes down the urge to lean over and tug on a strand. Goosebumps rise up on his arm; the scenario plays out like a movie in his mind, and it terrifies him.

“Hey, Changbin,” Felix says, lifting his head up. “Just a question— _if_ you had a soulmate, would it be a girl or a guy? Or no preference?”

“Huh?” Changbin says, startled— he doesn’t have a soulmate, so why does it matter, and why the hell is Felix asking him that? “Um… not something I’ve given too much thought to? I don’t think I have any preference, though.”

“I see,” Felix says cryptically, and Changbin wants to ask him what he means. “I mean, I don’t think I have a preference, either. It’s kind of like long hair versus short hair, you know?”

“Sure,” Changbin says, although his chest feels so tight that he isn’t sure if he really means what he’s saying. “I mean, I guess I like long hair, but short hair works too. I think it matters with the person. You can have short hair, but if I like you enough, you’re automatically hot.”

“That’s how I feel about you,” Felix says, completely natural. Changbin automatically nods for a second, before Felix’s words register. Wait, _what the fuck_? “I mean, it’s all hypotheticals, of course. I once had a crush on someone who was bald.”

There’s a long pause, in which Felix stares at him expectantly, and Changbin’s mind collapses into shambles.

“Yeah,” Changbin stammers, because he needs to say _something_. “I mean, I’d love to be bald. You’d never have to spend any money on shampoo.”

“Which means more money for cereal,” Felix says. “You know what, that’s—”

Changbin zones out as Felix rambles about the pros of shaving his head, internally screaming. What does Felix mean by what he said? Felix is a naturally complimentary person, but that went a little far, especially if they’re talking about _soulmates_. Changbin is having a meltdown in the library. He needs to get out of here. But he can’t just walk out now without raising the suspicion that something is wrong.

“Oh, and is this the formula for arccos?” Felix asks him, tapping him on the arm.

Changbin startles and scoots his chair back a few inches. “Yeah,” he says, and prays it is. “Sorry, but I have to leave now, I promised Chan I’d help make dinner tonight.”

“See you,” Felix says, and Changbin is too preoccupied to register the nervous tremor to Felix’s voice. “Thanks for the help.”

 

**[PAST]**

 

The best thing Changbin ever drew was only a few inches in length and width.

But that makes no sense without context. Rewind back to the bakery; Jaebum had left, and the person that replaced him is a girl named Jihyo. Changbin can say that she might be the prettiest person he has ever met, even with her hair tied back in a messy ponytail and batter and flour streaking her clothes.

“How is her face that _proportional_?” Hyunjin asks, squinting at her. “I could literally use it to study ratios.”

Looks don’t matter to Hyunjin; he’s once claimed that good personalities are the best makeup (before promptly turning red and refusing to speak for the rest of the hour); therefore, it’s always amusing to hear his objective evaluations.

“She also makes these really good lemon tarts…” Changbin says.

“That’s so unfair,” Hyunjin says, fake-disgusted and starstruck. “Leave some talent for the rest of the population.”

Changbin admires Jihyo in a different way than Jaebum. Impressively enough, her visuals are the least of her assets, as she effortlessly juggles delivery spreadsheets, ridiculous orders, and rowdy customers. The subordinate staff loves her, too. However Changbin, unlike with Jaebum, never musters up the courage to approach her.  

Until she taps him on the shoulder during cleanup, asks, “Changbin?”

“Yes?” Changbin says, trying and failing not to drip lemon foam all over her shoes.

She tilts her head, hair hanging in limp curls down her shoulder. “So I heard this rumor that you’re good at drawing, and I have this idea. But I need you to show me something.”

“Okay,” Changbin says, and hopes she’s not going to ask him to produce the modern day version of _Starry Night_ in two seconds.

She extends her wrist outwards. “Would you draw me a bracelet?”

Changbin is terrified, and he’s only got one of his cheapest pens in his pocket, but he manages to do as she asked, circling her wrist with 2-D beads, shaped like miniature donuts and tarts.

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, my soulmate will hate it,” she says delightedly. Changbin decides not to ask. “But, the idea is that I’ll excuse you out of all cleanup and setup duty—”

“— What,” Changbin says, disbelieving.

“— If you draw on customer’s wrists,” she adds. “It’s a good promotional technique, and you would be surprised by how many people like these things, it’s the newest big trend on Instagram. And you’ll get paid in equal time, of course.”

Changbin flashes back to when he was at the community center, drawing amature designs on kids’ wrists for free. This isn’t anything big, either, and he doubts that people actually would want something like that, something like that from _him_ , but he nods anyway. Jihyo beams, and Changbin, despite insecurities, smiles back.

\---

“ _Yes_ ,” Hyunjin says, flopping over on Changbin’s bed. “ _Do it_.”

“ _Do it_ ,” Jeongin echoes, pumping up his fists for extra effect.

“See? Jeongin agrees with me.”

This is only Jeongin’s third or fourth time over, because Jeongin lives further away and also doesn’t have any convenient method of transportation. But it’s summer, which means Jeongin has more freedom (his parents work him pretty hard).

“Changbin, it sounds so cool,” Jeongin says, pleading. “So you’ll be like, a temporary tattooist?”

Changbin worries his lip between his mouth. “I guess?”

“Is it just 2-D bracelets, or what?” Hyunjin asks. “Are you extending this to face-paint, as well? What about half-sleeves? Full-sleeves?”

“You know a worrying amount of tattoo terminology,” Changbin notes.

“You know too little.”

Changbin hugs his knees up to his chest. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I think I’ll just do bracelets for now… if it’s promotional for the bakery, I can do the bracelets for free, with maybe a choice between short or long-lasting ink.”

“How about you could have seven generic bracelet designs that are free,” Jeongin suggests, “And then you could charge a thousand or two thousand won extra for customized ones?”

Hyunjin’s eyes widen, impressed. “Damn, Jeongin.”

“I learned from the best.”

“We should make Changbin a cardboard banner,” Hyunjin says. “You know how those street vendors always have pictures on those banners that make you wanna buy the thing? Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“You’ve come a long way from lemonade stands,” Changbin comments.

“This is nothing,” Hyunjin says. “I can be your manager. _You_ just supply the talent.”

So Jeongin, Hyunjin, and Changbin spend the rest of the afternoon designing the banner before Changbin finally manages to convince them it’s fine, he can do the rest. He neglects his studying for the day to work on it, and he’s surprisingly guilt-free when he finishes.

In the end, he has seven generic designs in total, his two favorites being a solar system with a smattering of stars, the other a circlet of notes like sheet music. As if, even in high school, even a thousand miles away, he was influenced by a boy with a smile like the sun and music in his veins.

\---

To Changbin’s surprise, Jihyo’s idea _works_.

He sits at a side table with the banner over his head, and people are willing to give him a shot, even if most people do it out of amusement and curiosity, and the fact that the base level design is free. But strangely enough, people also ask him for custom ones pretty soon.

“Can you do a pair of wings?” A girl says, quietly. “And then underneath it, shattered glass?”

She stands in front of him and wears a black face mask, a baggy sweatshirt with one sleeve rolled up for Changbin to draw on, and equally baggy jeans, despite the fact it’s over eighty degrees outside. Changbin has this overwhelming urge to give her a hug, but squishes it down because that would be weird.

“Of course,” he says, and the girl stuffs two thousand won into the jar next to him.

Her wrist is thin, and Changbin carefully outlines the wings and the pieces of broken glass, then adds the words _you’re doing well_ underneath it on a whim. Her eyes shine at the end, and she lowers the mask for a second to say, “Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” Changbin says gently. “Have a good day, alright?”

“You too. I hope everything goes well for you.” And then she pushes the door open and walks out, sunlight reflecting off her hair.

The money is nothing. But Changbin begins to crave that feeling of accomplishment when he’s able to replicate the image in his mind’s eye, when the corners of someone’s mouth lifts up. His pens run out of ink. He buys ones that are specifically designed for skin. He spends overtime at the bakery.

He ends up doing half-sleeves, too, after a while.

Hyunjin takes a lot of delight in designing the banner and cataloging the designs he’s willing to do, and Jeongin offers to make a jingle. Changbin rolls his eyes, but inside he’s endlessly grateful.

“This is the sort of stuff we should be able to put on college applications,” Hyunjin says, as he demands that Changbin draw him a bracelet, free of charge.

He tells Changbin to make it red because Seungmin likes red. Changbin is disgusted, but he also really likes the stuff coming out of his hands right now.

Jeongin grins. “Like, the small things?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hyunjin says. “Who cares if I scored an a thousand on whatever test? There’s a formula for that kind of stuff. There’s no formula for this.”

It’s summer and the sky drips blue and gold and Changbin constantly has ink on his fingers. The bakery has a sale for cold drinks. He draws beach waves on people’s wrists, covers an entire man’s biceps in a banner of cursive song lyrics. He doesn’t get that many customers, it brings in almost zero extra money, and later he will doubt if he ever did anything at all, but for the moment the smiles he gets is plenty repayment enough.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

In the present, Changbin is hiding in the bathroom, crouched on a toilet, Hyunjin’s face upside down in his hand.

“I’m sorry, _what_ ,” Hyunjin says, disbelieving. “Wait, why are you in there? Seo Changbin, what’s going on?”

“I live in a shared dorm, the bathroom is the only viable place to have a crisis,” Changbin hisses. “This is place has some really bad stall graffiti, by the way—“

“Stop changing the subject, you art nerd,” Hyunjin says, “and tell me what happened.”

Changbin drags a hand down his face. He doesn’t even know where to begin with this one. It sounds so stupid when he says it aloud; his twisted mental process is something he can’t even explain to himself.

“You know Felix?” he finally says. “Did I tell you about him?”

“Deep-voiced, plays the violin, often wears cross earrings and an angel necklace?” Hyunjin recites, in a voice like he’s reading off a somebody’s resume. Changbin wonders, with faint horror, how much he unintentionally talks about him. “That guy?”

“Yeah,” Changbin mumbles. “Him. But… so… “

Understanding flashes across Hyunjin’s face. “Changbin.”

“Hyunjin.”

“Do you have feelings for him?” Hyunjin asks carefully, and Changbin glances at the out-of-order toilet and contemplates the logistics of flushing himself out of this plane of existence.

“I…” Changbin starts. “I don’t know.”

The thing is, he really doesn’t. Before— Felix was so unattainable, like a bright star in the night sky, millions of light years away. Changbin could look from a safe distance and not get burned. But now he has the information that, in reality, Felix might not actually be that far.

What does one do, with the knowledge that the sun might be within their reach?

“How long?” Hyunjin asks. “Did you just realize this today? Is this why you’re calling?”

Changbin shakes his head. “No, I’ve actually— a month— I may have. I don’t know.” Hyunjin raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t tell anyone, alright? I don’t want a repeat of what happened in high school.”

“That’s unhealthy emotional repression,” Hyunjin says. Changbin gives him an odd look. “Seungmin’s a psych major and it’s rubbing off, ignore me.”

“Yeah, I’ll disregard that, I’m not _repressing_ anything,” Changbin denies.  “But continuing— anyway, so— yeah, Felix has a soulmate. And his soulmate, Minho, is really cool. Like, he draws so well.”

He can hear the insecurity in his voice and he wishes it weren’t there. “And apparently the two of them _aren’t_ romantically involved, can you fucking believe that?”

Hyunjin is silent for a moment. Changbin’s heart hammers in his stomach.

Hyunjin sighs. “Changbin— look, I’ll admit that it’s unconventional,” he says. “But Seungmin’s showed me studies that the functions of heart and soul aren’t completely correlated. And you _know_ that. You’ve just been burned a lot before.”

“‘Completely correlated.’ Big words.”

“I’m just trying to help you out here,” Hyunjin retorts. “But the point is, being soulmates doesn’t automatically means you have a perfect relationship. Seungmin and I get pissed off a lot at each other, although you don’t see it.”

“But you still love each other. And my parents. They love each other. _Romantically_.”

Changbin knows that the stuff coming out of his mouth right now isn’t stuff that he’d usually say, or that he’d even approve of. He had a phase back in high school where he was obsessed with breaking the system, and while he’s significantly cut back on the vehemence of that ideology, he still likes the unorthodox, the original, the universe that exists on the outside of the box.

But like a contained fire, he’s been scared back into the space of four walls.

“I’m not saying it’s the norm,” Hyunjin says quietly. “I’m just saying it’s possible.”

The door of the bathroom opens, and Changbin nearly falls into the toilet from how wound up his nerves are. The two of them stay silent as a guy does his business and leaves.

Changbin takes a breath. “Yesterday, Felix and I were in the library.”

He chokes, the words tasting like bile in his throat, and he spits them out unnaturally fast. “I said something like, if you like a person enough, they’re automatically hot in your eyes. And then Felix responded, _that’s how I feel about you_.”

Changbin can’t believe how completely he was shattered with just a single phrase.

On the tablet, Hyunjin looks like he might be constipated, and Changbin realizes that it’s because Hyunjin is _fighting back a smile_.

“Jin, I cannot _believe_ you—”

“I’m sorry!” Hyunjin protests immediately. “It’s just, that’s so _smooth_.”

“I _know_ it is,” Changbin pleads. His intestines feel like they’ve turned themselves inside out. Maybe telling Hyunjin wasn’t so good of an idea. “But yeah, there we go. That’s the story. Are you happy now?”

Hyunjin shakes his head. “Wait— Changbin—”

“What is this?” Changbin asks, suddenly angry. “I thought you didn’t like me getting romantically involved.”

“I don’t like the aftermath of you getting hurt,” Hyunjin corrects, voice patient. “But I don’t like you giving up on yourself, either.”

“I’m sorry, what are you saying? I can’t hear you over the sound of me avoiding my thoughts,” Changbin snaps. “I’ll talk to you later, alright? Sorry for dumping that on you.”

“ _Changbin—_ ”

And here, Changbin disconnects, before he slumps down against the stall wall and braces his elbows on his knees. He has no idea if this situation warrants this level of melodrama. Maybe he’s reading too much into it. Felix isn’t stingy with his compliments, after all.

\---

To distract himself, Changbin works on his semester project.

There’s a bone-deep sense of _wrongness_ almost as soon as he starts the sketch off. An emptiness. Like a pumpkin with the seeds all scooped out.

Once, Changbin had asked Jisung what writer’s block felt like, and Jisung had said, “I mean, it’s different for everyone. I can’t speak for the people.’

“Stop being existential and give me your version of it.”

Jisung grins, wry. “I mean, it’s not for a lack of ideas, usually. It’s more that I can’t get sucked into the story. When I write, there’s always that voice that goes, _you think you can write, you asshole? Well, let me tell you all the reasons why you can’t_ , and during writer’s block, it’s louder than the words I’m putting down. It feels like trying to walk through quicksand.”

Changbin nods. “Interesting.”

“What’s art block feel like?”

“I don’t know, I don’t get it,” Changbin says cheekily.

“You dick,” Jisung says, but it’s fond. “I hope you never get it, then.”

But it’d been a lie for the sake of humor. There are times when Changbin can’t draw anything at all, times when the recycling bin will pile up with paper, when an internal Seungmin yells at him for killing the trees, like a less orange version of the Lorax.

Seungmin likes plants more than people. Changbin can definitely understand.

His semester final project sacrificed many trees, and it’s maybe the best technique he’s ever used, and he _can’t get into it_.

The picture is like a blown-up photo, a stadium filled with people watching a race. There are two enlarged circles in each corner like it’s been zoomed in, one featuring a boy tying his shoes at the start line, the other a girl in the stands drawing a finish line on her wrist.

It’d been a clever concept in his head, but looking at it now, Changbin isn’t sure why he ever thought it’d work. The picture is so _full_. Of miscellaneous people, of miscellaneous clutter that he’s trying to say. And looking at it, he feels nothing. It’s twenty-four by thirty inches of oil paint splendor and all he can think is _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

“It’s so good,” Jisung says, admiring, when he looks at it. “Like everything looks so real, you know?”

Changbin doesn’t deserve such a compliment, especially from Jisung, especially with this. “Thank you.”

“God, if I could draw like that…” Jisung says. And it’s strange, because all the words are kind, and Jisung’s compliments are extravagant, very different than the dubious evaluation he’d given at the beginning of Changbin’s project. But Changbin derives no joy from the fact that Jisung has changed his mind.

However, Changbin has spent enough time on it that there’s no time to change, and Changbin stares at the impending deadline and realizes he’s going to have to turn it in, whether he likes it or not.

When he brings it to class, Jiyun and Minho compliment him on his improved technique, and Changbin responds in kind for theirs. But inside, he’s completely humiliated. Jiyun had told him she admired his interpretations, the storylines he could produce with a single snapshot. It’s his strong point, and Changbin always underestimates it.

Don’t the things on the rubric matter more, after all? The measurable things?

But looking at his drawing, he knows there’s no way he’s getting into the exhibit, and he knows that Jiyun and Minho know that, too. He thinks he knows what’s wrong now. The picture is supposed to represent a love conquered, a perfect match. It’s something Changbin’s never had, and so the picture has the wrong feeling. It’s a drawing full of people, and yet, it emanates a sense of loneliness.

 

**[PAST]**

 

It’s one of the cooler September weekends, the sky streaked with wispy clouds and stepped-on crabapples staining the ground. Changbin is sitting at Hyunjin’s coffee table, legs crossed, staring lifelessly at the thick packet of unfinished college applications in front of him.

“Wow,” Hyunjin says. “Looking at this, I love how I just forget everything I’ve ever accomplished in my life. I mean, not that it’s that much to begin with, but still.”

“Let me see,” Changbin says, pulling the paper over toward him, and wincing. “Not going to lie, your apps sounds so sterile, but mine’s the exact same.”

Hyunjin snorts. “I could write yours for you, if you want. Talents: pretending to be dark, stealing my ice cream; hobbies: head-locking Jeongin, buying witty sweatshirts—”

“Prime student material right there,” Changbin answers dryly. “What university _wouldn’t_ want me, with those qualifications?”

He’s struggling, though, he admits. The numbers part is easy, if a little disappointing— he puts down his transcripts (mostly As, a single stray B), his test scores (they’re high, but standardized tests follow a formula, and his parents sent him to several prep sessions), and his credits. He lists down his extracurriculars and the awards he’s won— which is, not many— and there it is:

Seo Changbin, neatly summarized in a sheet of statistics.

He debates what to write his essay about. In the end, he dresses something up about math team, where he’d been an alternate ever since sophomore year. Talks about how good of a team experience it was, and how he learned so much through it. Doesn’t mention Jeongin, although Jeongin’s the only part that he cares about.

“Ah, you wrote yours about math team,” Hyunjin says, looking it over. “I wrote mine about track. Can you look it over and tell me if I’m, like, missing commas? Or if I haven’t been cheesy enough?”

Changbin scans it. “ _And now I’m ready to pass the baton on to the next section of my life_ ,” he reads, in the cutest voice he can. “I think you’re good. You laid it on _pretty_ thick.”

Hyunjin takes the packet of papers and whacks him over the head. “Shut up.”

\---

Before the math team thing, he’d written, _over the summer, I…_

And then he’d stopped. Scribbled it out.

Because colleges don’t want to hear about that kind of thing. _Yes, but why does that matter? Why does it prove you’re a good leader?_ They won’t be impressed by Jeongin’s cheap cardboard banner, by Changbin’s one-day tattoos, by bright smiles and two dollars dropped into an aluminum can.

The thing is— Changbin doesn’t win that many art competitions. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but when he entered high-school, the pool of talent widened from a puddle to a sea, and Changbin doesn’t know how to stand out. He doesn’t know how he’s going to fare in the ocean of university, in the real world. Because right now, he mostly draws for himself. He draws with the hope other people might see it someday. In an ideal world, people would appreciate that, but he also knows that this method means he doesn’t have the qualifications some other people do.

“You’re too good for the judges anyway,” Jeongin says, at lunch.

Changbin doesn’t know how it’s possible that Jeongin still holds that admiration for him, but he likes it anyway. “Thanks, kid.”

In Hyunjin’s college application, he wrote about track. In Jeongin’s college application, he’ll write about math team, about choir.

Changbin doesn’t give a shit about that stuff. If asked, he supposes he’d say he’s proud of Hyunjin’s thigh muscles and Jeongin’s vocal chords, but not before he’d say that Jeongin could gift someone the moon with his silver smile, or that Hyunjin’s lap was better than any expensive memory-foam pillow, that Jeongin always left waiters a tip, or that Hyunjin folded a girl an anonymous bouquet of origami flowers the day her parents got divorced.

He doesn’t know how to say why any of it matters. He just knows it does.

\---

Hyunjin goes to take a bathroom break in the middle of his fourth application, and it’s then that Changbin’s tablet rings.

Seungmin’s video-calling him. Interesting. “Hello?” he asks, picking up.

“Hey,” Seungmin says, and his voice is nervous. “I need a biased opinion. But not Hyunjin. Hyunjin’s too biased.”

Changbin’s not going to lie, he’s intrigued. “Shoot.”

The screen had been dark for the time being, and Changbin had assumed that it was because Seungmin’s end was glitching, but then he realizes it’s because Seungmin’s been covering up the webcam with his finger. Changbin doesn’t understand, but gets it as soon as the hand is removed.

“Whoa,” he says. “You dyed your hair!”

“There was this bet and suffice to say, I was on the losing end,” Seungmin groans. “Is it okay? Do I look like a cherry lollipop? Or that my head is on fire?”

“No, no, it looks pretty good,” Changbin says. “I’m pretty sure it does, at least. It’s just very— new.”

Seungmin nods, satisfied. “Fair enough.”

Changbin and Seungmin have an odd relationship. Changbin’s Hyunjin’s best friend and Seungmin is Hyunjin’s soulmate, so the two of them would be connected by invisible strings even if they didn’t talk at all. And they do sometimes talk, and Hyunjin talks about the both of them enough to each other that Changbin could probably write a three-page essay on Seungmin with no problem, and vice versa.

But otherwise, the two of them are acquaintances, maybe friends, if pushing it. Changbin sometimes wonders why they’re not closer— Seungmin’s pretty cool, and he keeps Hyunjin in check. Maybe it’s _because_ they’ve gotten so used to thinking of each other as the soulmate and the best friend, and besides, the Pacific Ocean is a pretty big hindrance for people who putting in a massive effort to befriend each other.

Whatever the reason, Changbin feels a warm sort of feeling at the fact Seungmin is asking him his opinion.

“Is that Kim Seungmin?” Hyunjin says, skidding across Changbin’s linoleum floors. Seungmin’s got his thumb pressed up against the webcam again, probably, as its gone completely dark. “Or am I going insane?”

“Second one,” Changbin says dryly, and Hyunjin pouts. “No, Seungmin called me.”

“Ooh, why?”

“To ask him if I could please borrow a cup of overseas sugar,” Seungmin says, voice equally as dry. “Actually though, what are you guys doing right now? It’s like, late afternoon over there for you, right?”

“College apps,” Changbin says, the same time Hyunjin says, “Why are you covering up the webcam?”

Changbin rolls his eyes, shoves the tablet over to Hyunjin. “I’m going to go get pretzels. Hyunjin, try not to implode too much, okay?”

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “That’s reassuring.”

Changbin stays an inordinate amount of time trying to find pretzels because (1) he doesn’t remember where the pretzels are, and (2) he really does not want to be around to witness Hyunjin’s face turn the same shade as Seungmin’s hair. After a good ten minutes have passed, he turns and walks back.

“No, you’re _not_ wearing a cereal box when we meet up,” Hyunjin says, sounding frankly, insulted. “Besides, you put milk in before the cereal, anyway, so I doubt you even know how cereal works.”

“Shut up, and fine, let’s just not meet up, then,” Seungmin retorts. “I have a potbelly, and therefore the concept of meeting up terrifies me—”

“What?” Hyunjin laughs. “I’m not sure if that was a joke, but I literally do not give a shit whether you have a potbelly or not. Besides, what’s wrong with potbellies? You’re gorgeous either way.”

Changbin clears his throat from the doorway. “I’ve gotten the pretzels,” he says, voice unnaturally loud, like he’s announcing the rebirth of the last airbender instead of the fact he located a snack. “Anyway, when do _I_ get to meet up with you, Seungmin?”

“Hopefully soon,” Seungmin says, face red.

“Seungmin’s already finished with his apps,” Hyunjin says, completely shameless. “Procrastinate like the rest of us, will you?”

“Hwang Hyunjin, I beg you, please shut the hell up.”

“Weird as fuck that we’re all going to rearranged, though,” Changbin says, sitting down on the kitchen chair in a way that’s probably really bad for his posture, knees braced against the place where his butt is supposed to go.

“I mean, not going to lie, it’ll be nice to have one of you guys here with me,” Seungmin says. “I’m that _one_ overseas guy right now.”

It’s a strange reality that’s slowly sinking in, that next year Hyunjin will be overseas and Changbin will be— wherever he’s managed to get in, and Jeongin will be left back at their high school, probably being sweet to all the incoming freshman even though most seniors can’t bring themselves to give a shit.

But that’s a terrifying thought, so Changbin shoves it aside for now.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

Changbin isn’t avoiding Felix.

Okay, that’s a lie. Maybe he’s avoiding Felix. He switches up where he studies in the library, doesn’t go into the dorm unless absolutely necessary, takes routes around campus that don’t intersect with Tik Tok. He makes excuses to himself. He feels gutted out from the inside, a sort of hollow that makes him want to burn the world down.

Felix isn’t the sort of person to allow himself to be pushed away, though. When Changbin walks out of his lecture hall, Felix is there, five meters across on the green.

“Hey, Changbin,” Felix says; his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I haven’t seen you around recently.”

“Yeah,” Changbin says. Swallows. “I’ve… been stressed.”

Felix is good with people. He doesn’t have the kind of cold stare that Changbin can shoot, but at this moment, Changbin realizes that Felix’s eyes, warm and brown, see deeper than any harsh gaze ever could.

“You want to talk about it?” Felix asks. No easy way out.

 _Make something up_. “It’s nothing, sometimes I just go into hermit mode.” That isn’t a lie, at least. “It’s not a good habit, I know. Sorry if I’ve been ignoring you.”

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Felix says. “But you know, I’m not going to let you stay in hermit mode for long. Jisung and I will physically drag you out of isolation if needed.”

And to Changbin’s horror, Felix’s eyes curve with relief, with the assumed knowledge that it’s a Changbin thing, not a Felix thing. That Felix didn’t do anything wrong. Which, it _isn’t_ like Felix did anything wrong, not at all. Changbin just…

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Let’s go get coffee, I’m tired.”

Changbin knows he can’t just keep avoiding Felix, after all, even if one night he did contemplate the logistics of stowing away on a cargo ship to America and hiding under Hyunjin’s bed for the rest of his life.

Being next to Felix after a week is like jumping into a pool, exceedingly painful at first, but after awhile the water feels comfortable, warm, like he’s always belonged in there. It’s normal. Felix doesn’t drop any lines on him again, and they’re just Changbin and Felix, friends, without any weird soulmate-system glitches between them.

(Changbin is absolutely stupid.)

\---

 _I read too much into it,_ he texts Hyunjin.

The three dots go on for a worryingly long time, and then Hyunjin texts back, _okay_.

Changbin is irked by Hyunjin’s monosyllabic response, but Changbin’s guilty of responding with either an _lol_ or an ellipses at least once every conversation. See, in real life, he can just laugh or give a raised eyebrow, and it’s not a conversation killer. He’s not so good with the rules of texting, though.

“Dude, I need to show you something,” Felix says, one afternoon.

Changbin is trying not to stress out about the fact he’ll get his grade on his semester project (which he will not show Felix, ever) in two days, and Felix is actually a welcome distraction.

“Go for it.”

“It’s over in one of the music wings, like, in one of the practice rooms. You okay with going there? Or like, studying in there? Sometimes I just do that, instead of in the library, if I’m too tired to move after practicing.”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”

The thing that Felix wanted to show him turns out to just be a piano, except someone has painted a cityscape on the front of it, buildings rising out of the keys. Changbin reaches out a hand to touch it before pulling it back, afraid to accidentally smudge it, and not knowing quite how to react.

“To me, it looks like something out of an over-budgeted music video,” Felix says. “For some reason, I thought you’d find it cool, though.”

“I do, because it is. Who did it?”

“Don’t know. I just found it. I can’t play on something like that, though. I’d keep on getting distracted and forget what I was playing halfway through.”

“Can you play the piano?” Changbin asks curiously. For some reason, it seems like Felix would be able to.

Felix shrugs. “Not nearly as well as I can play the violin— piano doesn’t make sense to me, like what do you _mean_ I have to play notes with both hands?” he says. “My level stops around… maybe Chopin’s _Raindrop_? That’s the hardest piece I can play.”

Changbin nods, having absolutely no idea what the hell _Raindrop_ is, and Felix snorts. “I can play it for you after I finish practicing the violin. Which, do you mind crappy background music, or nah? If you do, you can leave, I won’t mind.”

“No,” Changbin says, and settles himself in one of the stray metal chairs in the room. “Go ahead.”

Sometimes he listens to classical music while he studies, anyway, those brain music compilations on Youtube that are dubiously helpful, as people end up getting so distracted by the comment sections. But there’s no comment section here. Felix goes to get one of the practice violins, which Changbin can tell is way cheaper than the one he owns, and he plays.

It’s surprisingly nice.

Felix taps his foot and repetitively goes over measures, fragmented melodies accompanying Changbin as he flips the pages of his textbook. Felix’s practicing isn’t something that makes Changbin want to listen, even if it’s _Felix_. (His playing, however, is a different story.) And so three hours pass in this fashion, Felix going over runs that Changbin would probably burn his fingers off trying to imitate and Changbin switching highlighters when he gets especially bored.

And then—

“Do you still want to hear me to play the piano?” Felix asks.

Changbin looks up. “Hmm? Absolutely. You’re not fucking getting out of that.”

“Just a warning that I’m not Yiruma or Horowitz or anything, there’s a reason I play the violin,” Felix laughs. “Ah… I don’t have this off the top of my head, can I borrow your tablet to search up the sheet music? It’s been two years since I learned it.”

Changbin hands him the tablet, and Felix giggles at the fact Changbin had been looking up dumb Coca-Cola commercials during a studying interlude.

He obtains a pdf and sets the tablet on the stand. “Let’s do this. God, who graffitied this thing? It’s so distracting—”

“—Are you stalling?”

“... Yes.”

Changbin waits. Felix carefully presses his fingers to the keys, turning the notes, which to Changbin looks like a foreign text, into music. He’s correct about being rusty— the chords jarr several times, and there’s a couple of awkward transitions where he squints at the tablet like he lost his place.

But Changbin is enamored. It’s a universal truth that people look good sitting at a piano, and with this, it makes his hands shake.

He doesn’t know what to feel. He’d convinced himself that he and Felix were a platonic thing only, that his feelings were some sort of mental glitch, but now he realizes the extent to which he’d been deceiving himself. This practice room is maybe the size of a large closet, and Felix is playing the piano; the song is a shower and a storm all at the same time, and Changbin is drowning in the rain. He looks up at the cloudy sky and fears where the sun has been all along.

He wants to hold Felix’s hand and have Felix press the notes into his skin.

The last measures flow out of the piano and drift into the air. “There we go,” Felix says, embarrassed. He swings his legs around so that he’s still sitting on the bench, but is now facing Changbin.  “Have you lost all of your respect for me as a musician yet?”

“That was so good,” Changbin says quietly.

Although, Felix ruined this prelude for him forever. Changbin will never be able to hear it again without thinking of this particular scenario. That’s the thing about music: it’s a vessel for memories, good and bad.

“Yeah. I wanted to learn to play Debussy’s Arabesque, but it was too hard,” Felix says. He’s noticed the atmosphere in the room now, and his smile is too bright, too frozen, like fake plastic. “Like, Debussy, I love you, but I only have two damn hands.”

The joke falls flat, feeble to begin with.

Changbin needs to say something to break the tension. But he can’t stop looking at Felix. He can’t make himself walk away from the edge of a precipice.

Time slows.

Felix swallows, braces a hand against the bench and lifts himself up. The whole thing feels scripted, like it’s a scene in a movie, inevitable no matter how many times it’s replayed. Felix is so close; Changbin can see the little circlets of his light in his eyes, the melanin galaxy across the bridge of his nose, the fullness to his mouth.

And then time starts again. Changbin breaks scene; he turns his face, and Felix’s lips hit his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea don't be deceived that ch ending was just an excuse to not write a kiss scene bc i suck with kiss scenes
> 
> im tired but i hope u like,, quick reminders i love u + am sorry y'all have to put up with me,,


	7. young wings

**[PRESENT]**

 

“ _What the fuck?_ —”

“I am so sorry!—”

Changbin is an artist, not a rocket scientist, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Felix was aiming for the mouth. Felix’s current expression looks like a deer caught in the headlights, face pale-white and eyes wide with terror, while Changbin is sure his own face is aflame.

His cheek burns where Felix’s lips had touched it.

“Why did you do that?” Changbin finally stammers.

Felix bites his lip, stares down at the floor. “Because I like you.”

Changbin digests this information the best he can while his stomach is in knots and his intestines are turning themselves inside out. “The soulmates way.”

“— Yes.”

“But Felix,” Changbin says, “we aren’t soulmates.”

Silence.

A part of him, deep down, is euphoric at Felix’s reciprocation, pissed at what Changbin is about to do, and begs Changbin to kiss him back. But that part has also been pushed down into the deepest part of his chest, burnt and broken and infinitely weak, and is easy for Changbin to ignore. Less easy to overcome is the fear that courses through his veins, the need for the practice room to be bigger, the wish that Lee Felix were miles away and Changbin was alone.

“I know that,” Felix says. He looks up, and a spark catches in his eyes, irises smoldering. “Does that erase the validity of my feelings for you, though?”

“Yes, it does,” Changbin says, voice desperate. “You don’t know anything.”

“Are you sure? I think I can speak for myself.” Felix’s mouth sets in a thin line, and suddenly Changbin is aware of the two inches that Felix has over him (it’s never been an issue before), but Changbin has never been one to back down. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel anything back.”

Changbin crosses his arms, levels Felix with a cold stare that holds tears just under the surface. “That isn’t what matters here. We aren’t soulmates—”

“Oh my god, is that your only argument?” Felix says, exasperated.

“You don’t understand—”

“Okay, then tell me _exactly_ what I don’t understand—”

“News flash, but _this_ ,” Changbin says, and gestures at the space between them, “ _is not going to work_ _out_. You think I haven’t tried before?”

“What’s your proof that it won’t work?”

“Because that’s not the universe’s will. There’s a reason I’m not your other half, and Minho is.”

“I told you, the universe made a mistake,” Felix says, voice rising. “I love Minho, but _not like that_.”

Changbin grits his teeth, remembers Minseok, whose lack of contact had eaten him from the inside out, remembers Iseul, who took a chance that was hopeless to begin with. And Changbin’s love language is made of art, so he says, “Every time I draw on you, Minho shows up the next day with the design on his skin. How should I deal with the fact you basically belong to someone else?”

“Oh, fuck you, I don’t belong to anyone. Maybe he shares my soul, but that doesn’t mean— it doesn’t mean he has my heart. At all. You do.” A tear slips out of Felix’s eye, unacknowledged as it slides down his face. “It’s not the same thing.”

Changbin wants to run, but his legs are rooted to the ground.

“You’re so selfish,” Changbin whispers. He doesn’t mean for it to come out, but it does. “The universe gave you perfection, and you want something else.”

“And you’re so delusional. You see the whole concept of soulmates as—” Felix shakes his head, desperate for Changbin to understand. “You know my sister? Her soulmate beat her, ‘out of love.’ Tell me that’s _perfect_ . And Jisung, are you telling me he doesn’t deserve another chance at happiness? Are you telling me Woojin is _insane_?”

Changbin has nothing to say to that. His words dry up in his mouth.

“I can’t,” he says, finally. “I can’t do this.”

Felix turns away. “So that’s how it’ll be.”

He grabs his violin and walks out of the practice room. Changbin fiddles with his sleeves, looks for something to fix, but there’s nothing. With Felix gone, his tears flow freely, and he sits down on the ground and fights the urge to call everything Felix’s fault. But if Felix just hadn’t kissed him…

He’s so confused. He’s so scared.

Changbin, after Iseul, had resolved himself to the fact he would be alone. It’s partially why he threw himself so hard into art; he wanted something that belonged to _him_ , since he couldn’t have what everyone else had. But this is not happiness.

He wipes his eyes and stands up almost robotically, makes a basic list in his head of what he should do next. Go back to the dorm, finish up studying, eat something for dinner, act normal while at it. His head can’t stop replaying fragments of Felix’s words, and his mind latches onto specific ones— what exactly does Felix mean, that Jisung deserves another chance at happiness? About Woojin not being insane?

Changbin isn’t ready for the answer yet, but he resolves to himself he’ll ask in time.

\---

Two days later, he gets the results on his final project back.

Changbin stares listlessly at the piece of paper. After his and Felix’s argument, he hasn’t been feeling much of anything, except blind panic, self hatred, and a certain sadness— an emptiness— that he hides from his roommates by leaving the dorm early and going back late.

His grade is five percent higher than anything he’s gotten before. On the back, in a thin scrawl, are the words _speak to me after class_.

Minho nudges Changbin’s bicep. “Do you know what’s up with Felix?”

Changbin swallows, and Minho traces the movement of his Adam’s apple with his stare, eyes narrowing in correct assumption.

Fortunately, the professor breaks any further interrogation by speaking. “One of the members of our class has made it into the _MMCA_ winter exhibit.” There’s a sitcom-worthy gasp followed by her statement from somewhere in the back of the room, but most of the room just waits in silence. “Moon Jiyun, congratulations!”

Jiyun’s face is lowered to the ground as the class claps for her, applause loaded with admiration and envy. Changbin’s stomach swirls, sick.

“Whoa, did you know?” Minho asks her, Felix forgotten for the time being.

Jiyun nods, mumbles, “Yeah, they sent me an email telling me I got in…”

“Congratulations, oh my god,” Changbin says, finally getting his mouth to work. “You deserve it.”

“Thank you.”

Jiyun seems extremely uncomfortable at the attention, so Changbin follows Minho’s lead and lets her alone for the time being, as she’ll definitely be bombarded as soon as she leaves class. Changbin sneaks a glance at her: her eyes are lowered at her easel, plain braid thrown over her shoulder, and she’s fiddling with the bracelets on her wrist.

Changbin is prepared for the jealousy.

Because— how can he _not_ be, when Jiyun was always three steps ahead of him, and two months younger— when she seems so far ahead and unreachable. But he already currently despises himself, and berates himself further for this, because he can’t just be _okay_ with himself, always wishes he could shed his skin and switch his soul for somebody else’s.

“It was luck,” he hears her whisper to herself.

Changbin thinks back to all the compliments she gave him, and understands now that she did mean what she said.

He stays back in the lecture hall after everyone has filed out, and heads over to where the professor is at her desk, swinging her legs and humming a tune that he doesn’t recognize. Changbin wonders what she has to say to him. He thinks that maybe he already knows.

“Seo Changbin,” she starts. “You’ve really improved this semester.”

He struggles to lift his eyes upward. “Thank you, Professor.”

She talks a little about the logistics of his piece, about how his eye for spacing and his shadowing has gotten much better, but Changbin understands that this is all prelude to what she really wants to say, and waits for her to get to the point.

“However… your painting, it was very cliche,” she finally says, and Changbin struggles not to winces “I was surprised, because I always look forward to your originality.”

Changbin adjusts the strap of his bag. “I understand, I’ll work harder—”

“No, I know you work hard,” she says, and Changbin snaps his mouth shut. “And everyone has bad pieces, god knows I have. I’d just like to let you know that, since our school is having an exhibit before winter break, I’ll give you the opportunity to turn in a different piece for that, if you’d like.”

For the first time in several days, Changbin feels something other than numbness. It’s not _MMCA_ , but this is an opportunity that he feels comfortable with. Something within his control.

“You know what I always really like about your drawings? They tell a story,” she says. “I have to go now, Changbin, but think about it, alright? And I hope you decide to take Part II of this class next semester.”

 

**[PAST]**

 

It’s spring of senior year and Changbin and Hyunjin sprint to check their mailboxes as soon as they get home from school; they receive the _pings_ of an email and scramble to look at their phones, only to be disappointed when it’s Twitter suggesting accounts they should follow or advertisements from random restaurants.

“I’m not even old enough to _drink_ ,” Hyunjin grouches, when he looks in his inbox and all he has is an invitation from a local bar to one of their events.

Changbin shrugs his backpack over his shoulder. “Better than that condom brand that emailed me promising me ninety-percent better protection.”

One, that sounds like a total _scam_ ; two, he doesn’t even have a soulmate, and he’s not interested in just the physical aspect of a relationship; and three, it’d just been plain disappointing— the disappointment had felt like a physical thing, trickling down his esophagus. Because everyone in their year at school is currently waiting for their acceptance letters. (Or, well, rejection letters. But.)

“You guys sound so stressed,” Jeongin says, shuddering. “I’m so glad I’m not going through this pain yet.”

“Your time will come, junior,” Hyunjin says, ruffling Jeongin’s hair with a little more force than usual. “How’s physics treating you?”

“Not too badly, actually,” Jeongin says, and Changbin laughs at Hyunjin’s murderous expression.

Physics had been the bane of Hyunjin’s existence last year— it’d also been the bane of Changbin’s, too, but to a lesser extent. Hyunjin had _really_ hated it.

Fortunately, even though it feels like forever, the letters do come. Changbin gets deferred to the waiting list of the two of the schools he applied to, and he makes it into two out of three of his safety ones. He thinks it’s fair enough. He has options.

Seoul University hasn’t responded yet, but Changbin is okay with this. It’s a pipe dream, always has been a pipe dream. He knows that deep down. Maybe always knew that deep down, is just realizing it now.

It’s a good day, the kind of day that makes you just stand back and appreciate it, and Changbin hums and looks at the sky while he makes his way over to the block where he lives. As soon as he catches sight of the mailbox, though, his gut twists, a Pavlovian response by now. When he looks in, he sees the expected— a few bills, a rolled-up magazine, a cardstock advertisement.

When he walks into the house, though, both of his parents are sitting at the coffee table.

“Good day at school today?” his dad asks.

Changbin nods. What else can he answer? “Yeah.”

“This— came for you,” his mom says, and holds out a thin manila package. Changbin already knows what it is before he even sees the logo on the side of the envelope. I

t’s a pipe dream, but his heart is in his throat anyway.

“I figured you’d want to be the one to open it,” his dad says.

Changbin swallows, takes the package. Awkwardly picks at the top before it gives and a huge tear rips down the side, right in the middle of the shiny logo. He extracts the paper, heavy cream, and sees the words _Congratulations, Seo Changbin…_

“I made it in,” Changbin whispers, disbelieving.

His dad is silent.

“Binnie—” his mom says— she hasn’t called him that in ages “— we’re proud of you. Congratulations.” Tears shine at the corner of her eyes.

So he got in. But it’s more complicated than that, Changbin knows.

He officially realized a few months ago that he’s not going to be able to make enough money to cover his own tuition no matter how many extra shifts he takes, how hard he works. He started off too late, because he’d grown up with the idea that his parents, of course, would help pay for his college.

Changbin was on math team, after all, even if he _was_ an alternate. He knows numbers. They can be crunched, but you can’t create money that wasn’t there in the first place.

His parents won’t pay for him to major in art. Of course he could go to Seoul University, but it’d be under the condition that he majored in something that they liked, preferably computer science. Changbin stares at the acceptance letter; it’s only been in his hands for two minutes (he still can’t believe it’s real), and yet, he already knows that he’ll have to say no.

How had he managed to get in, anyway? There are plenty of people more qualified than him. What kind of mistake is this?

“I—” Changbin starts. “— I’m just going to go to my room now.”

He’s resolved that he isn’t going to give up art. Sometime between then and now, between Jaebum and Jihyo and Hyunjin and Jeongin, he figured out that Seoul University isn’t the end all be all. It’s an opportunity, something that _could_ potentially act as a catapult to success, but it’s more important that he stays on the path that he wants to go on, that he continues to run in the direction his heart tells him to.

He stares at the acceptance letter and gives a miniscule shake of his head.

\---

It’s Wednesday at the bakery when his mom walks in.

Changbin doesn’t even notice her, to be honest; she doesn’t order anything (which is something Jihyo would hate— she never calls out the people who come in and order nothing, but the _judgment_ in her stare), and she sits at the table in the way back, out of Changbin’s sight.

After his shift is over, he heads over to his regular place, taking out his markers and supplies. He draws a blue dolphin on a kid’s wrist, a flower in bloom on a girl’s forearm. And then—

“A customized wristband, please,” his mom says, and sits down at the chair across from him. She puts a folded one-thousand won bill into his jar.

Changbin nearly knocks all of his pens off the table. No, he _does_ knock them off, and he spends a good thirty seconds scrambling around to pick them off the floor.  “... Mom?” he asks, before semi-recovering. “What… what would you like?”

“Draw me whatever you want.”

Changbin wants to cry. Why does Changbin want to cry?

But he complies, taking three minutes to figure out what sort of thing he wanted to do, and then he sets the pen down on her forearm, which is soft, a little weathered with age. Those arms held him when he was a baby, although they haven’t hugged him in years. He feels completely naked right now; he’s gotten comfortable with drawing on complete strangers, and yet, this is the most terrifying experience of his life.

“Okay,” he says, to himself. “Okay.”

He fills in a circle on her wrist, the place where one would wear a watch, fills it in with black and dark blue, until it takes form as a smashed compass, glass flying all over the place, arrow pointing haphazardly to the southeast. Then he turns her arm over and ties the compass around her wrist with an inked braid, three ropes fraying but hopelessly entangled together, like him, his mom, his dad.

He loves her, but he’ll go his own direction.

She lifts her arm and stares at it. “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs.

And then Changbin _does_ start crying. It’s surreal to hear validation from his mom, even more so than Seoul University’s acceptance, but it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to here. It’s late at night and the cafe is about to close down, and here he is, tears streaming down his face in public, but he doesn’t want to wipe his eyes lest the action of moving his arm draw attention to him.

“Thank you,” he chokes out.

“Listen. I— I talked to your dad last night,” she says. “And…”

Changbin holds his breath.  

“... He’ll need time to come around,” she finishes. “But he knows he can’t control me. I’ll pay your way into Seoul University as an artist.”

Changbin’s eyes snap wide open. “You what.”

His mom smiles, sad. “I’m sorry, Changbin,” she says. “I know I… haven’t been the most supportive of you—” a mild understatement, but that’s fine “— and I know an apology won’t cut it here, but. If you want to go into Seoul University as an art major, then I’ll help make that happen.”

There’s a wound in his heart that never healed right, the tissue over it jagged and infected. Two seconds ago, it’s just been ripped open again, but maybe that’s something that needs to happen. Maybe it’ll close over and become a faded scar, something he’ll finally come to terms with.

“Do you forgive me?” she whispers.

Changbin can’t look at her anymore. He stares at the coffee table, blinking his eyes furiously. “I…”

To be honest, he doesn’t know if he can. He’s so used to tip-toeing around the subject of his drawings, to hiding his sketchbook whenever she comes near, to making plans on his own late at night and counting the stars outside to help him sleep. One big gesture isn’t going to fix any of that.

Especially since it’s _Seoul University_. That part of his agenda… it was always because he wanted to prove himself to his parents. His mom will never be able to convince him, after this, that her support is unconditional, that it comes without strings attached.

However, Changbin is also her son, and he loves her, and to be honest, he is willing to take whatever he can get.

“I will forgive you, eventually,” he says.

“Okay.” She doesn’t sound sad. She sounds like she was expecting it.

“But I love you,” he adds. He hasn’t said those words in a long time. Stopped after elementary school.

“I love you too,” she says, then stands up, pushes the chair in, and now she’s business-like, the woman he knows. “I’ll meet you back home. Thanks for the drawing. You’ve really gotten so much better. I’m proud of you.”

She leaves, and Changbin closes down the stand for the night. His chest feels like a balloon. He stares at the future and is terrified of what he’ll find. He stares at the future and sees an endless map of roads, that he never thought would even be an option to walk.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

Where did all that bravery go?

He walks across campus with his head down, makes sure to always be in weird places at weird times so that nobody can find him. Sometime in the process of this, he realizes he misses Felix badly. It feels like being deprived of sunlight, not getting to see his smile. But Changbin is so afraid of getting burned.

 _Let’s get coffee_ , Woojin texts him.

Changbin is tired, thinks, why not? Besides, he’s always trusted Woojin.

He doesn’t bother pretending he gets his coffee black this time, dumps in three packets of sugar and a generous amount of cream so that it’s more like caffeinated ice cream rather than anything else. Woojin makes no comment. Instead… Woojin seems more concerned, and Changbin realizes dully that he’ll have to talk today.

“You don’t look so good,” Woojin notes. “You okay, Changbin?”

Changbin blows on his coffee, takes a sip. “Yeah, I guess. Finals are killing me.”

Woojin snorts. “Aren’t we all dying from those?” he says, although he looks perfectly fine, collected and _himself_ as always. “But… not the point. Chan talked to me.”

“And I’m assuming I was the subject of this conversation?”

“He’s worried. Jisung’s worried. And Felix hasn’t been himself, lately, either. But apparently he’s refused to tell anyone except for Minho, and you know. Minho’s loyal.”

The words fill Changbin’s ears with acid. He stares at his coffee cup and drums his fingers on the styrofoam, wondering if he could distract Woojin by asking exactly how many tons of plastic go into making these coffee stirrers. So Felix hasn’t told anyone, except for Minho. That’s so much more than Changbin deserves.

“So you’re here to interrogate me?” Changbin asks, spiteful.

“Not at all.” Woojin’s voice is gentle, and it makes Changbin feel like he’s six years old. “I just want to get your side of the story. You and Felix fighting— at least, I think something like that happened— affects all of us, you know. Jisung’s been so stressed out that he’s been having trouble writing.”

“I call emotional manipulation,” Changbin mutters.

Woojin just looks at him.

Changbin sighs. “Fine. Felix may have— um— well, you see—”

 _This_ is why he draws. Words are so hard to get out. He feels like his entire face is on fire when he says:

“Felix tried to kiss me. And… I pushed him away. And yelled at him a little bit.”

“So… were you upset that he tried to kiss you?” Woojin inquires. “Or something else?”

To be honest, Changbin doesn’t even know. Because he’s thought about kissing Felix before— it fills him with some kind of sick euphoria, thinking about kissing someone else’s other half. He wonders if Felix would taste like something that didn’t belong to him, if his mouth would come away branded.

“We’re not soulmates,” Changbin finally says. “I told him it wouldn’t work.”

“I see.” Why isn’t Woojin sounding more judgmental? Woojin doesn’t have a soulmate, either.

“And I said it in a really bad way. Also, he… he said something about me calling you insane, or something. I don’t know what he meant by that.”

“Ah, I see,” Woojin says, and here, his cheeks pink. “Well— I guess it’s partially my fault, that I didn’t tell you about that. So… you know, how in this day and age—” Changbin, despite himself, smiles a bit “— you can talk to basically anyone around the world, and there are apps for basically everything? Chan dared me to download this thing, set up a profile so that they could match me based upon interests. And I’ve been talking to this girl. She lives in the Philippines. I… really like her.”

Fuck. “Wow,” Changbin chokes out. “That’s amazing, dude. I’m happy for you.”

And of course he doesn’t think Woojin is insane. Of course he thinks Woojin’s got a fighting chance of keeping his relationship going. But applying that same kind of logic to himself? That’s terrifying. Especially since he’s told himself, again and again, that the universe never meant for him to fall in love, burned him two times in high school to prevent him from ever going near the fire again.

“So I guess that’s my two cents,” Woojin says. “It’s not perfect. We fight and shit. Sometimes she finds me cute. I find her cute. We’re figuring it out as we go.”

Changbin is so fucking ashamed.

“I don’t know what to do,” he finally says.

“Well, let me ask you this. Are you attracted to Felix?”

To be honest? Changbin probably likes Felix more than Woojin likes chicken.

But Changbin doesn’t answer, and Woojin, seeming to realize that he’s reached his limit, switches the topic to something else, architecture and drawing and how Changbin could like, maybe help him design a skyscraper in the clouds or whatever, since floating islands are apparently going to be a thing in the future. The ugly feelings in Changbin subside a little bit, but he’s not quite sure what’s underneath the surface.

\---

One thing Changbin _is_ sure of— he’s turning in another project for his university exhibit.

“Oh my god, you’re alive,” Jisung says, when he comes back into the room and finds Changbin spreading out newspapers on the floor and setting up his easel. “I thought you’d, like, switched rooms, or something.”

Changbin’s mouth quirks up. “Nope. 5RACHA just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“You, my friend, are absolutely correct on that,” Jisung grins. “But what are you working on now? I see… a blank canvas. Did you like, draw invisible flowers? Because bro, I can do that too.”

“No,” Changbin laughs. “I just haven’t started yet.”

Jisung is so kind, not asking any questions. He leans forward, bracing his hands on a mattress. “What project is it for?”

Changbin bites his lip. “It’s for the end-of-semester exhibit,” he says. “You know the last thing I drew? That was what it was supposed to be for. But… the prof told me that it wasn’t… she said…”

“Changbin, do I have to fight your prof?”

“Don’t fight my prof, she’d probably kill you,” he says seriously. “But yeah, the gist of it was that she thinks I didn’t really put my heart into it, or whatever.”

“Ah,” Jisung says, understanding. “I mean, I guess I can kind of see that, too. Don’t get me wrong, your last project was amazing and everything, but it didn’t really feel like your style? It was kind of cliche, and I like your stuff because it’s original. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“What will you draw this time, then?”

Changbin shrugs. “I’m hoping it’ll come to me if I just… stare at this canvas long enough…?”  

Jisung shoots him an unimpressed glance, and Changbin shrinks back.

See, what Changbin has always admired about Jisung is his ability to just go and do _anything_ , whether it be fight someone for a fifty-percent off bottle of Coke or make a new friend or finish a project that’s due three minutes to midnight. Changbin could do all that stuff, too, but there’s stuff holding him back. Baggage weighing down his wings.

What is there, in the sky, that he’s so afraid of?

Whatever it is, he’s starting to understand it’s not worth staying on the ground for. And he’s running out of time, holding himself back, hurting those around him.

“I think I kind of want to reverse what I was doing in the last one, though,” Changbin says, bouncing ideas off of Jisung, like a sounding board. “I could just, like, draw a giant metaphorical middle finger towards the whole soulmate system.”

“Oh my god,” Jisung says, sounding thoroughly amused. “Changbin, can I tell you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Listen, I’ve been thinking—” Changbin bites back a sarcastic _that’s a first_ , too intrigued by what Jisung is about to say. “I mean, I noticed this a long time ago, but you and Felix… you don’t really act like normal friends. You never did.”

Changbin bites back a grimace.

“And I’m guessing that has to do with why both of you are being so weird right now…?”

Changbin looks away. “Don’t rub it in, I’m starting to realize I’m a whole fucking idiot. It’s… a work in progress. A very painful work in progress.”

“Well, the whole point of art is to express yourself, right?” Jisung says. “You could start from there. God knows how many times I’ve projected into my own writing.”

Jisung is right. Art is a form of expression, but…

“And whatever decision you end up making, I’ll support you,” Jisung continues. “Just, please don’t hold yourself back, Changbin. The soulmate system isn’t perfect. The soulmate system broke my heart. I don’t know if I’ll ever get a chance of piecing it back together again. I know… she would want me to be brave, and to be happy… but it’s so hard to let go.”

Art is a form of expression, but it’s also a form of communication. And Changbin’s got some stuff he wants to say.

He looks at the canvas and thinks it looks like a clear sky.

 

**[PAST]**

 

It rains on the day of graduation, so the ceremony takes place inside the school gym.

“I _wish_ it were outside,” Hyunjin says beforehand, crowded at the open cafeteria entrance along with everyone else in hopes of catching a rain-drenched breeze. “It’s so hot in here. Did the air conditioner break or something?”

“Probably.” Their school doesn’t use their budget well. “But Hyunjin, it’s _raining_. Your diploma would get all wet.”

“I can like, blow-dry it or something,” Hyunjin answers. “Besides, it’s just a piece of paper, right? It’ll be crumpled in a box at three months, max.”

Changbin knows that Hyunjin is just complaining for the sake of complaining— Hyunjin, although he doesn’t show it, is sentimental, childhood toys and cheap American sweepstakes that Seungmin mails over kept in a box underneath his bed. But Changbin doesn’t feel like calling him out on it, just tries to crowd closer to the door for a higher chance of getting hit by the spray.

He’s wearing a puffy graduation gown and dress shoes that pinch his toes and he’s sweating profusely, maybe from heat, maybe from something else. He sincerely hopes he doesn’t cry. He knows Hyunjin and Jeongin have bet money on whether he’d cry or not, which probably says something about how dysfunctional his tear ducts are.

“Alright,” one of the staff members calls, trying to herd them away from the door. “Guys— come on, line up, get in order— come on– _dammit, it’s your graduation, do you want to get out of here or not_?”

Changbin steps in place behind a girl whose name he doesn’t know; just that she’s the one he’s supposed to be behind. Hwang is nowhere near Seo, so Hyunjin gives a quick wave before disappearing into the throng of other seniors. They walk into the gym, their school orchestra providing them shitty background music, and Changbin suddenly feels his heart drop out of his chest.

“I’m so glad I don’t have to play Pomp and Circumstance anymore,” he hears someone whisper from behind him. “That was so painful.”

Changbin wouldn’t know, but yeah, the orchestra kids definitely seem like they’re suffering. He takes his spot in his designated chair and just looks around, at the principal standing up on the stage, at all the parents and people on the bleachers (someone in there is his mom, his dad, and Jeongin), at the blinding fluorescent lights up above.

Changbin watches everything happen in double time. Awards are handed out. Speeches are said. Certain students are congratulated. The whole thing feels almost surreal, like it isn’t even happening to him, watching along the sidelines in a dream.

“And now, before we hand out diplomas, we’re going to have two of our students play a song that they wrote themselves,” the principal announces into the mic. “Please welcome Cha Chinsun and Min Dayoung.”

Changbin claps, politely, with everyone else.

One of the girls take a seat at the piano; the other closes her hand around the mic and lifts it to her mouth. The audience is still, intrigued. A few seconds later, soft chords emanate from the keys.

And Changbin doesn’t cry, but he comes close.

The song is quiet and mellow, like falling rain, about past memories and uncertainty for the future and the fact that some people will always stay connected no matter how far they go from each other. Fortunately, Changbin isn’t the only one who’s struggling— next to him, a girl is furiously blinking her eyes, and he thinks he can see one of the staff members surreptitiously wipe away a tear.

Fuck, why is always the background music in movies that do it? (Well, that and the dog dying. Those two things are always what mess Changbin up.)

Crazy that he only realizes how much he really cared about something when he’s no longer at it. Even a month before, he was complaining about annoying teachers and heavy course loads, but it hits him fully now that he will never eat mystery lunch in the cafeteria again, that he’ll never go to one of Hyunjin’s track meets and buy overpriced concessions and try and cheer through a mouthful of under-buttered popcorn.

But everything has to have an end, doesn’t it?

“Seo Changbin,” the principal calls, and Changbin walks onstage and collects his diploma, shaking the principal’s hand with a sweaty palm. His eyes are probably wet. Scratch that, they are wet.

Yeah, it’s a piece of paper with his name written on it in cursive, but it’s also a final ending, isn’t it?

After the ceremony, when everyone is at the reception and trying to get to the homemade chocolate cake before anyone else can, Changbin locates Hyunjin and Jeongin, bearing a paper plate with two cookies and some random pastry that he doesn’t know the name of but was too colorful _not_ to take.

“You didn’t cry,” Jeongin says, triumphant. “Hyunjin owes me five thousand won.”

Changbin loves Jeongin.

Hyunjin shakes Changbin by the shoulders, and wait, _Hyunjin’s_ crying. “I had _faith_ in you. I thought you wouldn’t make it. Shit, this is all upside down.”

“It was the song, right?” Changbin asks. “That broke you?”  

“Oh yeah, that was fucking— it was fucking awful,” Hyunjin mutters. “But still. Couldn’t you have— I don’t know— I _hate you_.”

Musically speaking, the song was pretty simple, lyrics amateurish and piano backing rudimentary. But the message, combined with the scenario, was enough to make it something beautiful, and Changbin kind of wishes he knew those girls so he could ask for a recording of it or something.

\---

In the last summer before Changbin leaves for college, he sets up his easel outside and paints underneath the sun. He goes to the pool with Hyunjin and Jeongin, has water balloon fights in Jeongin’s backyard, grass wilted from the heat.

In August, for his birthday, Changbin tells them he’s doing nothing.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Hyunjin asks, disbelieving. “I know you’re like, cold-hearted and dark and shit, but this is taking it a little too far—”

“It’s not going to be exactly _nothing_ , I’ll sleep and breathe and draw and stuff—”

“You fucker, you’re not doing that. I will make sure that you’re not doing that.”

So Changbin really should have seen it coming when Hyunjin makes good on that threat and barges into his house on his birthday (really, he can do that anytime, why would today be an exception) bearing a liter of coke, cheap pizza, and a sleepy-looking Jeongin. And Changbin’s not going to tell them to go away, so he lets them in, where his mom fusses over Jeongin and goes to get them candles and a lighter.

Changbin hadn’t wanted a party because— well— he thought, it’d make him _sad_. He’s going to college and he’ll miss Jeongin and Hyunjin, and the thought of celebrating with them rubs salt into the wound. But it goes better than he expected. They dig water guns out of Changbin’s basement— there’s only two, so Jeongin gets a Nerf gun, and they battle it out on Changbin’s driveway.

“You know what, this is unfair,” Jeongin says, after he’s lost all of the styrofoam bullets.

Changbin should have paid him mind when he said that, because he doesn’t see it coming when Jeongin discreetly connects the hose to the sprinkler and thoroughly douses Hyunjin and Changbin with an entire waterfall.

“That was cheating,” Hyunjin yells.

“There are no rules,” Changbin says, and brushes his wet hair out of his face. “But yeah, Jeongin just won that. Can we call truce now?”

And then they eat pizza on Changbin’s porch and drink the Coke, which is lukewarm at this point, and talk about random shit, the topic bouncing from one trivial thing to another until it inevitably goes to next year, and college, and the three of them being separated.

“It’s okay, Hyunjin will have his soulmate,” Jeongin says. “And I have friends that aren’t you—”

“You _do_?” Hyunjin gasps dramatically.

“Shut up, Hyunjin. And Changbin will—” Jeongin pauses, runs out of steam. “And Changbin will, uh—”

“Have his stuffed animal Gyu and his inability to properly talk to people. Don’t hurt yourself trying to come up with something else, Jeongin,” Changbin answers dryly. “Fuck. As you can tell, I’m deadass terrified.”

“But you know that’s not true, right?” Jeongin says.

Changbin raises his eyebrow. “I’m _not_ deadass terrified?”

“No, that isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m saying you’ll always have us.” Jeongin’s tone is reasonable and even that the sentimentality doesn’t even register until Jeongin pulls a face. “Ew, I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth—”

“Aw,” Hyunjin says, hooking arm around Jeongin’s shoulders. “That was so _sweet_ —”

“Let go of me!”

“I can’t believe you’re going to be a senior next year, you baby,” Hyunjin dramatically continues. “It was just yesterday that you were taking your first steps—”

“Hyunjin, I am _barely a year_ younger than you—”

Changbin watches them banter back and forth, amused. When the Coke has been depleted, they go inside and eat cake off paper plates, the cheap grocery store type with frosting that tastes like sugary toothpaste. He blows the candles out all in one go, but he wishes for nothing. He stopped believing in wishes a long time ago, and anyway, he’s certain he’s already got everything he needs.

 

**[PRESENT]**

 

In art class, Minho has moved his easel away. Changbin can’t blame him.

Jiyun has probably noticed, but hasn’t commented on it. Changbin is afraid to look in Minho’s direction— whatever Minho looks at him with now, it’s probably a cross between ice and fire. But Changbin has to talk to him, he can’t keep putting it off.

He’d like to say that his fear of Minho murdering him is irrational, but…

It’s probably not.

The sky is swollen with heavy gray clouds when Changbin takes a deep breath and walks after Minho after class, bag awkwardly slung over his shoulder. Minho’s preoccupied with some thought, mouth set in a neutral line, but when he notices Changbin’s presence, he immediately stiffens.

At least Minho doesn’t immediately walk away.

“Minho, I—” Changbin starts. Falls silent. Shit, what was he going to say?

“If we weren’t outside a lecture hallway, and if Felix didn’t like you so much, I would deck you right now,” Minho says calmly. “I hope you’ve drawn something you liked for the exhibit, because if I had it my way, your hands would currently be broken.”

Strangely enough, it’s this threat that allows Changbin to steel himself. “I know. I… would break my hands too. I fucked up really badly.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“... Yeah.”

Minho’s face is still hard. “Not to be rude or anything, but why are you talking to me right now?”

“I need to know if Felix is coming to the winter exhibition,” Changbin says. “The one our university is holding.”

“... I actually don’t know about that,” Minho says, and this is not said in a harsh way, but a truthful one. “Why do you ask? Are you going to try and fix this mess you created?”

“I… yeah.” This is so difficult. Changbin has literally never felt this helpless in his life. “I’m not good with words… but, I have something to say to him. I need to know if he’s coming or not.”

Minho looks away. “I’ll make sure he does, then.” Changbin releases a breath. “Not for you. For him. You don’t deserve to know this, but you fucked him up really bad, you know. Like, I get it. Kind of. But you have to fix it.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, you better. You don’t? I’ll hurt you for real. He’s my soulmate, you know.”

And with this, he walks off. Changbin’s knees give out, and he sits down heavily on the grass. He trusts that Minho will get Felix to the exhibition. Minho might hate his guts right now, but Minho loves Felix, Changbin is sure of that. The last phrase Minho said cuts Changbin at the core, but this is something Changbin can handle. He hasn’t seen Felix in a couple of days. He hopes Felix is doing okay.

 _You fucked him up really bad_.

Changbin doesn’t deserve that kind of power. He thinks about Felix’s smile, how it lights up the whole entire room, how his cheekbones always seem crinkled up on the cusp of laughter, how he speaks with a contagious sense of joy. Is it possible, that Changbin turned the lights off? Is it possible, for him to get a little braver now? He isn’t sure if he can fix this. But he sure as hell can try.

\---

Changbin is so nervous on exhibition day that he can’t eat breakfast.

“You need to eat, you’re going to be in there all day, right?” Jisung says. “Take this bread so you don’t fucking _pass out_ —”

“Don’t mom me,” Changbin grumbles, but complies.

He takes a bite of the bread, and it tastes like sawdust in his mouth. But he chokes it down, nearly throwing up in the process, under Jisung’s watchful eye.

Everything is scarily normal when he heads over to the exhibit. He’s wearing plain clothes, a white t-shirt and blue jeans and black sneakers, and he goes over to the room that’s marked for him and sets his drawing up in its place. Minho is three rooms over. Changbin’s hands shake as he adjusts the frame, and he fists them in the fabric of his shirt to still them.

He was so sure that Felix would come, but now he has his doubts.

“Your drawing is beautiful,” Jiyun murmurs to him, when he passes by her. “I really love it. I think it might be one of your best.”

“Thank you, yours too,” Changbin says, honest. She turned in a different one too, since her original one is at _MMCA_.

At nine o’clock, the exhibition starts, and the doors open.

Students don’t have to talk about their own drawings— a lot of them choose to, but Changbin wasn’t lying when he said he was bad with words, and anyway, he’s waiting for someone. He wanders up and down the halls for a bit, looking at other people’s art, trying to curb both the jealousy and nervosa that roils in his stomach. It’s like waiting for an important test score. He wants so badly for this day to end, to get his results.

Well, if it doesn’t go well, Minho will murder him. Changbin’s pretty sure he was serious about that.

At two in the afternoon, Felix shows up.

Changbin knows it’s him before he even fully sees him, and when he does, Changbin has to physically bite back a wince.

Felix looks so— tired. He looks at the art with empty interest, and his smile seems like it’s made of porcelain. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, and his mouth is curved down as if being bent by some invisible force.

“I’m sorry,” Changbin whispers, to himself.

He really did screw up. And he’s never been more sorry in his life.

Well, Minho is trustworthy, certainly; he did more than Changbin deserved, now it’s time for Changbin to play his role. He navigates his way through the gallery, and goes back to the room where his drawing is hanging. He accepts compliments with rushed thank yous (he will regret this part later— he probably seemed like a total asshole) and waits and wonders, heart racing.

In another half hour, Felix comes over to the door of that particular gallery.

Changbin knows exactly when Felix spots him, because Felix freezes in his steps. By some miracle of the universe, Felix doesn’t walk out, but continues to walk forward; he won’t look at Changbin, looks at all the other pictures in Room 9 first before he comes over to where Changbin is standing, and even then his eyes are averted.

“Felix.”

It comes out an octave wrong.

Felix slowly lifts his head up, like it pains him to do so, and he finally looks at what Changbin drew. Changbin sees the movement crystal clear, like he’s watching through the lens of a telescope, like he’s watching it played back at him in slow motion. Felix’s eyes widen; his mouth parts.

Changbin is a coward, but at least he can draw. There’s a lot more he has to say before Felix can forgive him, before he can forgive himself, but this is a place to start.

See— when Changbin decided to come to Seoul University—

No, even further back. When he was twelve years old and wanted to become an artist—

Honestly, he’s never fit in the box anytime in his life. Why should he try to, now?

Felix terrifies him, because Changbin likes him _so much_. Changbin is scared his heart will break, and he’s scared Felix’s heart will break; Changbin doesn’t think he’s good enough, that Felix is making a mistake, falling for him like this. They’re not puzzle pieces, they’re just human.

But at the same time, isn’t that not giving Felix enough credit? Isn’t Felix allowed to make the choice he wants?

The universe didn’t make them soulmates, but it didn’t make them to be just friends, either.

And Changbin’s tried to show that. He usually draws people from his imagination, maybe pulls a piece or two from people he knows (Hyunjin’s nose, Jisung’s mouth, Jeongin’s hands), but he usually never puts anyone in their completion. Or himself, for that matter. But in this one— it’s him and Felix, barely disguised in 2-D.

In the drawing, there are a pair of silver wings on Felix’s back, and he’s pulling Changbin out of the water, own wings black and in the process of unfolding. Above them, unmarred by clouds, is a sky with a single door in the center of the clear blue. Changbin’s got no idea what lies past that gate, but he supposes that he should try and find out.

And for the first time in two weeks, Felix looks at him.

“Changbin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "why is everyone in ur fics constantly bad at romance" well, you see, my life philosophy is that if i have like, feelings for someone, i'll run the other direction. as fast as possible. unless i really like them. in which case, rip me. 
> 
> we're all caught up to the present timeline now!! just out of curiosity, how much fluff do i owe you all in the next chapter...?


	8. for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was betaed by the lovely ao3 user disstrack!!! 
> 
> s— i guess you won the bet, then, since you posted something before i could finish this fic. (i’m not that disappointed, though, bc seeing the notif in my inbox = seungmin’s reaction when likey came on asc). but 60k’s not too bad a prize, right? thank you for everything, you've inspired me a lot. i hope you are on top of the world always.

**[PRESENT]**

 

Changbin swallows. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

And it’s like… they’re the only people in the exhibit. Like it’s the climax of a movie and everything else is just background noise, smears of colors at the edge of the frame. It’s just Felix, looking at him with eyes wide and questioning, looking at him for the first time in two weeks.

Then someone coughs, and Changbin realizes this is not a fucking movie. He doesn’t even _watch_ rom-coms; why would he ever be in one?

“Your drawing is amazing,” a girl, the source of the cough, says.

And then she looks at him, at Felix, and then back at the drawing. Her eyes widen, and she takes a small step back. Changbin grimaces; he should have planned this out better. He’s always operated in a more subtle fashion, but this is Felix, who makes everyone in the room look at him as soon as he walks in. Perhaps that rubbed a little off Changbin, except he doesn’t know how to wear it as well, so he’s highly embarrassed as the girl mumbles something along the lines of _you’re a great artist_ before she hightails it out of the room.

Felix watches her leave, expression bemused. Changbin wonders what he’s thinking.

“We should talk,” Felix says finally. “Later. Somewhere else.”

It takes a second for Changbin to get his mouth to work— his brain feels like like a heap of burnt-out synapses and bad wiring. “I agree with the second part of your suggestion.”

“And the first part, right?”

But it’s not asked in a mean way. Instead, Felix’s eyes take on this glint, and Changbin realizes with horror and resignment that Felix now officially knows exactly how much power he holds. “You agree with the first part?”

“I—” Changbin stares down at his shoes. “Yeah, I do.”

“We could meet up after the exhibit?” Felix suggests. “I’m going to be here to support Minho, anyway.”

Changbin nods. Felix beams, wattage tripling in the span of a second, and Changbin thinks he feels his intestines physically uncoil. “I like your piece, by the way,” Felix says, and oh, he’s walking out of the room now. “And not just because I’m in it! I feel like its repetitive of me to say this, but you’re a really good artist.”

“Thanks,” Changbin says, automatic.

Then the _and not just because I’m in it_ registers in his brain, and Changbin wants to die.

\---

It’s five PM and Changbin stays back to help clean up the exhibit, locks up the room and tells some other artists that they’re incredible before he heads out out of the building. It’s cold, the kind of cold that cuts through his jeans and makes his legs ache, and he winces in secondhand sympathy when he spots Felix sitting on one of the stone benches.

At least Felix is wearing what seems to be thirty layers of clothing, resembling more of a puffy marshmallow than anything else. It’s cute. Changbin kind of has a thing for it. Felix is messing around on his phone, a small smile on his face, the gray tips of his touchscreen gloves visible even at a distance.

“Hi,” Changbin says, walking over. “Are you cold?”

Felix looks up, and his smile widens, before it flattens into a frown. “I actually can’t feel my mouth,” he says, and Changbin is about to apologize, before Felix adds, “it’s okay, it’s only been ten minutes. But please, let’s go somewhere with a heater.”

“Tik Tok still open right now?”

“Yeah, but that’s too far away,” Felix says. “I think there’s a tea place maybe two blocks away. Are you okay with tea?”

Changbin doesn’t have a particular penchant for tea, seeing as it’s basically hot water with some leaves dipped in, but the wind is cutting at his face and he doesn’t know how Felix managed to stay outside for even as long as he did. _He was waiting for you_ , a small part of his mind says, and Changbin feels a sudden spike of warmth shoot toward his stomach, in direct contrast to the freezing weather.

“I’m okay with tea.”

\---

The tea place Felix is talking about is well-designed, warmly lit, the walls shaded in tan with framed pictures of leaves and mugs interspersed between tables. Both of them just end up getting hot water. Felix dislikes tea as well, but apparently Minho likes it.

“I like bubble tea, though,” Felix comments, as an afterthought. “But you know. It’s too cold for that.”

The tea discussion feels like being pulled through the shallow end of the pool; Changbin knows the deep end is right over there, knows he’s going to drown any moment now, or if not drown, frantically tread water in an attempt to stay afloat. Hyunjin was always better at swimming than he was.

“And. So…” Felix trails off.  

“... So.”

Felix stares at the table. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, and Changbin’s eyebrows shoot upward. “For— pushing you so hard. I know I made you uncomfortable, if that’s the right word for it. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Felix,” Changbin says. “Don’t say sorry. I was an asshole.”

Felix’s mouth quirks up. “Well, I’m not going to deny that,” he says, and the words sting, the sort of sting that antiseptic brings to cuts. “But you have your reasons. I don’t know what it’s like not to have a soulmate.”

Changbin shrugs. “Not an excuse for me to say the shit I did.”

“Yeah, but I forgive you,” Felix says simply, and Changbin hides his expression behind his mug. He hates how much of an effect Felix has on him. “Can you tell me, though? Like… you said something about how you’ve tried this before. I was too mad to ask you what you were talking about.”

(Fucking hell, this is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Calculus has nothing on this.)

“My parents are the picture-perfect type of soulmates,” Changbin starts. “Like, my mom would write her grocery lists on her arms, and my dad would let her know he’d be late from work on his arms, and I grew up with that. And they always made me feel sort of crappy about being soulmateless myself. Not on purpose? Just— you know. Pity. I can’t fucking stand pity.”

“And my best friend, he and his soulmate are really good together too. They finally met up this year, they had the Pacific Ocean between them but they made it work.”

The words fall out slowly, feels like poison spilling out of his lips, but at the same time, it’s oddly freeing. Felix doesn’t judge, just drinks his water and listens like he’s got all the time in the world.

“In high school, there was this guy. He had a soulmate but his soulmate would never respond to his messages. And so we sort of had a relationship out of— I don’t know— desperation? He was in a really bad shape, and I was in a bad shape, and yeah… he moved away, eventually. I hope he’s doing okay, now.”

“And finally there was a girl. She had a soulmate but she wanted to try things out, and then it worked for a bit, but then she said it didn’t. Yeah. She fucked me up bad, it took me a long time to get over her.”

Silence.

“... So there we go. That’s my story. It’s kind of pathetic, I know.”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” Felix says slowly. “I… think I understand a little more now. Changbin, the angels never had it easy for you. But you tried, anyway. And I think that’s really cool.”

Changbin slides his mug from one hand to the other. “Heartbreak feels like shit.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“But at the same time, I always knew what I felt,” Changbin says. “The universe is a damn asshole, like, it doesn’t give me a soulmate, but it gives me fucking feelings—” Felix laughs “— so you know. When you asked. I… know that I… ”

He can’t do it. He can’t say it.

“Well,” Felix says. “You know how I feel.” Heat rises up to Changbin’s cheeks. “Winter break is in a day. You’ll have a lot of time to think it over.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” _I don’t deserve that_.

“Well, Seo Changbin, maybe it’s because I like you.”

The hot water nearly topples over, Changbin only managing to catch it just in time. Felix snickers, but Changbin is glad that at least Felix isn’t completely cool throwing out lines like that, since his face bright red and his eyes are shy.

Outside, snowflakes drift through the wind. Felix switches the topic over to how he’s going to see his old violin teacher in Australia, and how she’s going to yell at him, and Changbin cracks up with Felix’s high-pitched exaggerated Australian accent and ridiculous violin jargon and thinks, with Felix, no matter what happens, Changbin’s grateful to have met him.

\---

During winter break, it’s surreal seeing his neighborhood again.

He’s so used to the cramped communal space and Jisung and Chan bickering and the scratched _3RACHA_ atop their doorway. But his street feels familiar almost immediately. He’s lived here almost all of his life, after all.

Changbin slides the key into the doorknob and walks inside.

His dad is still out for work, and his mom is doing laundry and hasn’t heard him come in. The house hasn’t changed much. Changbin heads over to the living room, and the living room looks the same as always, the cabinet with all the good glass dishes locked up inside of it same as it was when he was five and papers strewn all over the table.

And then he takes a deep breath and goes upstairs.

“Changbin?” his mother says, in the middle of folding a shirt. Her eyes shine. “You’re back! I wasn’t expecting you for another hour…”

She wraps him in a hug, and she smells familiar too.

They don’t express affection very much, or talk very much— even less so with Changbin’s father, but in her arms, Changbin has missed her. Changbin’s very young, he knows, but he thinks that at this point, he understands human relationships are weird as hell. People can fit together in such a mismatched, imperfect manner and love each other all the same.

“Your dad’s train is delayed, but I’ll help you unpack. I’m glad you’re home.”

Changbin doesn’t tell her everything when they unpack. He talks about how Jisung went home to his family, and how Chan— _oh yeah, your other roommate? The one you said was intimidating?_ is staying on campus, and how he’s probably still not going to get that much sleep even though it’s winter break, and he talks about how the food at school is nowhere as good as hers.

He doesn’t talk very much about his art, or about Felix, because while those two things have impacted his first semester so much, both things are topics that he’s uncomfortable sharing with his family, so used to pursed lips and harsh words. The fact he can’t share feels only like an old bruise, though, easily ignorable. He’s still glad she’s here.

\---

Hyunjin, on the other hand.

“You fucker,” Hyunjin says. “You’re telling all this to me _now_?”

The two of them are sitting on Hyunjin’s couch, a forgotten video game playing in the background, Hyunjin’s mother plying them with ridiculous amounts of food. Changbin has done his best to explain the whole situation with Felix— he’s not so good with words, but Hyunjin has always been good at understanding him, even if Hyunjin looks mildly pissed off, like he does at the moment.

“I didn’t…” Changbin says quietly. “I didn’t know how…”

Hyunjin rubs the space between his temples. “I usually never say this, but you’re my best friend,” he says. “Why am I only hearing about this thing with elevator dude _now_? I didn’t know anything was going on.”

Changbin sighs. “Because… I don’t know… your thing with Seungmin,” he says. Hyunjin’s expression is unimpressed. “And you don’t like when I fall for people, or whatever.”

“That second part’s a blatant lie, I don’t care if you fall for people,” Hyunjin snaps. “I just don’t like seeing you get hurt. There’s a difference.”

“Well— he’s not my soulmate, so is there really?”

Hyunjin ignores this. “And what do you mean, my thing with Seungmin? Dude, my thing with Seungmin is _old news_. I would much rather hear about this thing you’ve got with violin guy—”

“Jesus Christ, his name is _Felix_ ,” Changbin says, half-laughing, half-serious. He reaches over to the table, plucks a grape off its stem, and aims it at Hyunjin’s mouth. Hyunjin barely manages to catch it.

“And I mean— I don’t know— you and Seungmin are so good together,” Changbin says, after eating another grape himself, and taking a ridiculously long time to chew and swallow. “And it’s never going to be like that for me.”

Changbin thinks this is possibly the strangest period of time he’s had throughout his entire life. Felix is making him take a look at a lot of parts of himself he’d previously kept completely covered, and Changbin doesn’t know what to make of it. Really, when was the last time he and Hyunjin had been so _awkward_? He and Hyunjin have always been perfectly in sync, a set of meshed gears. Oil changes have never been necessary.

“Seungmin and I aren’t _that_ good together,” Hyunjin says quietly, and Changbin crosses his arms. “Seriously, it was a learning curve. You think the fact he was fucking overseas never made it hard?”

“You guys video-called all the time—”

“Yeah, but I never got to give him, like, a _hug_ for ten years, and I generally show people I care about them through touch,” Hyunjin says. Changbin thinks back to hard jabs, and pokes, and hair ruffles, and concludes that this is a fair point. “And I’m forgetful sometimes, and he’s busy, and. Yeah. There’s been several points when we’ve literally nearly broken our computer screens yelling at each other.”

“Then you’re such a hypocrite,” Changbin says. “You never told me any of that stuff.”

Hyunjin falls silent.

It’s shitty, but Changbin gets it. The fact Hyunjin had a soulmate and Changbin didn’t— it wasn’t a problem for them, but they weren’t going to understand each other a lot of times, either.

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin finally says. “I don’t know. Just— with Felix, do what makes you happy, alright? You’re pretty good at making things work, and not giving up. Who needs someone that shares your soul when you’ve got that?”

Dear god, Changbin is going to cry. “Alright,” he says. Shit, his eyes are wet. No.

“Changbin, are you—”

“I am _not_ —”

Jeongin shows up ten minutes later, and Changbin and Hyunjin abandon their sort-of fight to welcome the senior, who tells them about what changed at their high school (basically nothing, except they put air fresheners in the guys’ locker room and now it smells like sweat _and_ pineapples) and asks them about college. Changbin and Hyunjin try to lie, at first, and tell him about how all the toilets are purple and how everyone wears jeans from jambangee, but it only goes for half a second until Jeongin tells them to cut it out with their bullshit, who are they trying to fool?

\---

_Maybe it’ll work out_ , Changbin thinks.

He thinks about Felix’s smile. Wonders how Felix would react if Changbin told him it distracted him all the time in class.

_I really want it to work out._

\---

Changbin gets back to the dorm two days before winter break ends, a little earlier than almost everyone else. He finishes unpacking in an hour and is heading down to the lobby when he runs into Felix on the staircase.

Felix looks like he’s done with the world, trying to lug two suitcases the size of Neptune each up the steps. He has bags under his eyes, and his face is pale, probably from the airplane, but Changbin’s mind is so messed up at this point that his immediate reaction is to have bubbles shoot up his torso, legs feeling a little weaker than before. But he doesn’t let any of that show.

“You need any help with that?” Changbin asks, pointing to the suitcases.

“Of course not,” Felix denies. Changbin raises an eyebrow. “Actually, yes, please, oh my god—”

“They really need to get the elevator fixed,” Changbin says, taking the handle from Felix. He is careful not to let their hands brush together; he needs to maintain his composure _somehow_.

“At this point, I’m really considering going on there, hellevator or not,” Felix says. “But you know. I’m already this far. How many floors do I have left…?”

“Two.”

Felix makes a noise like a dying cat.

Changbin forces the corners of his mouth to stay down. “... How was Australia?” he asks. (There’s an obvious elephant in the room, but it’s less that Changbin’s avoiding it, and more that he doesn’t know how to broach the fact it’s there.)

“You know, hot,” Felix says. “I think I tanned, like, five shades darker. Also, I’m super jetlagged. I don’t know if it’s possible for my sleep schedule to be even worse, but I guess we’ll find out in the next week.”

Changbin nods. “I see,” he says lamely. The elephant laughs at him.

They get to the top of the staircase, and Changbin lets go of the handle, and Felix slides down so that he’s sitting against the wall, leaning his head backward against the tiles. Changbin puts his hands in his pockets, a storm of phrases whirling in his mind, like _hey so I thought about some shit over the break_ , and _your hair looks good even though it really doesn’t_ , and _I’m an actual mess and you make me even_ more _of a mess_.

“Don’t you have to go somewhere?” Felix asks. Changbin stares at him for a second, not comprehending. “You were heading down the stairs…”

“Oh, yeah. I was just going to buy coffee for Chan.”

“I’m not even his roommate,” Felix says, “and I know the man does not need _more_ coffee.”

“It was going to be the decaf version.”

“— there we go, that’s more understandable,” Felix laughs. “Well, don’t let me keep you from that. Go get the man his placebic life blood.”

Changbin stays exactly where he is. “I’ve got time,” he says. “I can help you unpack.”

Felix turns his head away, so that Changbin will miss the way his mouth softens, and fiddles with the bracelets on his wrists. “Really? I mean— yeah, sure, if you _really_ want to help me put my pretentious violin posters up—”

The only saving grace to this whole endeavor is that Minho isn’t back yet. Changbin is sure Minho would be shooting him a combination of death glares and elaborate eyebrow wiggles, and he doesn’t need that added stress. He and Felix don’t talk that much, and Changbin honestly isn’t able to help that much either, so eventually the atmosphere makes Changbin blurt out:

“So— over winter break— I thought about what you said. At the tea shop.”

Felix pauses in unrolling his clothing. “I see,” he says slowly. His face is unreadable, which is a terrifying expression on Felix, whose face is usually an open book. “... and… you got a verdict…?”

“Yes,” Changbin says. The word drops out of his mouth like a stone. Felix waits. “Well— I mean— I don’t know what that means, actually, or what I’m saying. I just— yeah. Whatever you want. I’ll be that.”

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s even saying. Changbin is staring at the floor like it’s the most interesting thing since dark matter.

“I’m really shit at this…” he tacks on, because it isn’t obvious already.

“It’s not about what I want,” Felix finally says. “What do you want?”

And Changbin is glad he’s not the only one struggling, as the world hasn’t given them any words to articulate what they’re feeling, except ones that are designated for soulmates and soulmates only. Felix is better than him at this, but it’s still imperfect.

“I drew what I wanted,” Changbin says, and winces. (He still can’t believe that. It was so goddamn _lame_. He gave Felix fucking wings.)

“Okay…” Felix says, and there it is, Changbin can hear the smile in his voice. “So— we’re on the same page, then, whatever page that is.”

And Changbin makes the mistake of looking up right then, because Felix’s smile might be potent in its audio version, but it’s _lethal_ when Changbin is actually looking at it. It’s blinding. It makes the little gears in Changbin’s mind halt and malfunction, makes his brain scramble itself to bits and at the same time attempt to compile a list of everything he can do to keep that smile on Felix’s face.

“I don’t know how to do this, though,” Changbin says finally. “Just a warning.”

He thought about that a lot after Iseul, if it was maybe something he did. Like if he’d just paid more attention, or if he’d said better things, than it would've worked out. To this day he still doesn’t know his answer. But he’ll try to learn a new lesson for Felix.

“That’s okay, neither do I,” Felix says. “Most of my knowledge comes from romcoms.”

“I have never watched a romcom in my life.”

“I _know_ you haven’t, you horror freak,” Felix says, and there, now this is comfortable territory. “Well, let’s try this out, then. It might be a disaster, who knows? But you know. We can take it slow, and maybe it’ll work out.”

“Let’s aim for the second option,” Changbin says. Felix looks down and laughs, his eyes curving into crescents, and Changbin is just standing there looking at him and holding a poster in his hands, and really, even though it’s so lame, Changbin thinks that he’d be happy if he just has this even for a little bit.

\---

Felix texts him good night a few hours later. Changbin’s surprised when Felix’s name pops up— not unhappy, but surprised.

_good night b_

And Changbin thinks it’s a typo. C and B are pretty close together on the alphabet, right?

_good night f_ , he sends back.

(“You are so fucking stupid,” Hyunjin will tell him in a few days, but Changbin already knows that. He feels kind of bad, because Felix already doesn’t like texting and here Changbin is making it harder, but Felix seemed more endeared than anything, so it’s not the worst mistake to make.)

\---

The thing is that everything is relatively normal.

Actually— Felix is probably _less_ touchy than he’d been in the beginning, which is understandable, since Changbin had so completely shot him down when Felix tried to kiss him. So they’re walking across campus, and they’re not holding hands or anything, and Changbin is too much of a coward to take Felix’s hand, so it’s fine.

“There’s no adjustment period,” Felix is saying. “It’s like— holidays, and then right back to death. I’m still jet-lagged, and I think the ghost of Vivaldi cried in pain when I tried to play yesterday.”

“Vivaldi can deal with it, I’m sure there’s some thirteen-year-old out there in the world butchering his song much worse than you,” Changbin says dryly.

“How sad is it that this is actually a consolation?”

They’re heading over to the library to study, the way the two of them always do, and it’s the same. They stop to get coffee, Felix talking about how he made a solar system out of styrofoam paper cups once. Changbin might look a little too long at Felix, but he’s allowed to do that now, and Felix’s words are a shade off from platonic, and whatever Changbin manages to actually catch on to makes his entire face go red, but that’s cool.

And Changbin is generally productive, but—

Maybe it’s the holidays, or maybe it’s Maybelline, or maybe it’s Felix, but he’s not getting that much homework done today.

“I forgot to tell you, I bought this tiny kangaroo keychain for Chan from break,” Felix says. “And it’s so stereotypically Aussie and Chan just _froze_ —”

“Dude, I noticed that! He’s got it strapped onto his bag,” Changbin says. “He really likes it. I think he’s a little bit homesick… he said the last time he went back to Australia was around seven years ago.”

“Really? I’ll bring him in my suitcase next time,” Felix says. “Wait— crap, nevermind, he’d probably suffocate, and he’s too tall—”

“I mean, your suitcases have enough room—”

“Shut up. How much work is it to smuggle someone on a plane? Or, like, are black market airplane tickets a thing? Nevermind, going to Australia isn’t illegal, what the heck am I saying—”

“Felix,” Changbin says, “I think you’re the one who needs to shut up, you haven’t turned a textbook page in the last ten minutes.”

Which is extremely hypocritical of him to say. It’s true, but it’s hypocritical, and Felix raises his eyebrows, perfectly aware of this. But Changbin keeps his poker face on, and turns _his_ textbook page, even though it’s only badly and halfway highlighted.

“Seo Changbin,” Felix says. “You have literally been the _least_ productive person in the last half hour—”

“You don’t know that—”

“ _I’ve_ probably turned more textbook pages than you have, _counting that one_ —”

“ _Listen_ , you asshole, I don’t have that much homework—”

“I believe that the way I believe that the moon landing was real—”

“Okay, first of all, the moon landing was completely real, what are you saying,” Changbin says. “And second of all, it’s not all my fault. You’re really distracting.”

Felix doesn’t fire back a retort.

Instead, his eyes go wide, and he looks down at the table, and Changbin wonders if he’s said something wrong before he realizes that no, Changbin just took Felix down for the count. It was an accident— Changbin was speaking a truth. He’s not good with words, he just happened to misfire and press a button. Not going to lie, he wouldn’t mind doing it again, though.

“Don’t— you can’t,” Felix stutters. Clears his throat. “Okay, how about truce, let’s just shut up and do our work for the next hour—”

“Alright.”

“And first person who talks has to buy the other person food.”

“Free food’s good, let’s do this.”

Felix ends up being the one who loses, because he forgot about the deal despite being the one who initiated it and wanted to tell Changbin about the weird hat he just noticed someone wearing. Felix keeps his word, though, and buys Changbin bread on the way back.

Changbin’s not sure if he really wins, though. Because Felix smiles innocently and grabs Changbin’s hand, and they’re not soulmates but their fingers interlock perfectly, and when Felix asks for some of the bread Changbin gives him the bigger half.

\---

A month in and Changbin is reminded of why he doesn’t watch rom-coms. Because the characters in them are fools; love makes people stupid, loopy, irrational. And he himself is no exception.

“Changbin’s lost a lot of his dark demeanor,” Jisung comments, poking Changbin’s cheek. Changbin slaps his hand away.

Chan takes off his headphones. “Did he ever have one in the first place?”

“Okay, point,” Jisung says. “But like, his face. It’s no longer— like—” he gestures wildly “— I don’t know, like it’s all _soft_ now.”

Changbin glares, and hopes that at least his glare retains its previous power. “Keep saying stuff like that and I will never share my tangerine gum with you ever again.”

Jisung’s eyes widen. “No, I take it back, you’re terrifying, children run away from your very presence, uh—”

“Jisung,” Chan says dryly, putting his headphones back on, “I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.”

But Jisung is right. Changbin knows what it’s like to be in love with someone, but is not so accustomed to being loved in return, and suddenly he’s back in high school again relating to love songs with titles cheesier than the stuff they sell at Matropizza and scrambling to check his phone whenever he gets a notification. He and Jisung had teased Chan mercilessly when his eyes went soft and his mouth went up whenever his soulmate sent him a message, but—

“Changbin, you’re like that too now,” Jisung says, laughing. (His laughter wasn’t completely genuine, though, and Changbin’s heart quietly aches with a secondhand bruise. He hopes Jisung will come to terms with himself someday.)

See, it’s not perfect. To be honest, it’s stressful.

Changbin has never disliked Minho, looked up to him as an artist, but the truth is that it’s hard when Changbin knows that Minho will always be the one to share Felix’s soul, that Changbin can draw on his skin up all he wants but at the end of the day it’ll be Minho’s ink that shows up on Felix’s skin. And Felix loves Minho, and Minho loves Felix, and they’re touchy with each other, and they share a room, and—

Well, Changbin would never want to ruin that. He curbs his jealousy. He reminds himself that Minho is not the one Felix wants. It’s just hard, sometimes. He is naturally greedy for Felix’s attention, for Felix’s time.

And then there’s the fact that Felix is good with words, and Changbin is not, and the romantic stuff that comes out of Felix’s mouth will usually either fly right over his head or make him freeze up, unable to respond in kind. Korean is his native tongue and yet Felix wields it better than him when it comes to this, and two weeks in Changbin apologizes for not being _better_ —

“I don’t know, are you sure we’re good for each other?” he asks, while they’re walking back to the dorms. It slips out of his mouth unbidden, into the night. _Are you sure I’m the best for you_?

Felix is silent for a second. “Well, I like you, and you like me, that’s what matters, right?”

_We’re not soulmates_. The old argument rises up in his throat like bile, but Changbin chokes it down. “Someone else might treat you better.”

“We both know there’s going to be a learning curve,” Felix says softly. He slips his hand into Changbin’s, gives it a soft squeeze. “I wanna try.”

The retort Changbin had in turn withers to dust.

And, because Felix is worth it, Changbin tries to find the even ground. They work their schedules around each other, and Changbin looks forward to the times that he knows he’ll see Felix; he finds comfort in Felix’s touch, which is a language they’re both semi-fluent in. Changbin forces out words like _you’re cute_ , which makes him want to die inside, but Felix’s reactions always dull his embarrassment a little bit.

Changbin is terrified, but he supposes he should take the leap of faith.

Besides, Felix inspires him. The warmth that Felix seems to have gifted him flows out through his hands and onto the canvas; his fingers are constantly covered with faded stains of paint. Changbin unconsciously works pieces of Felix into his art: in sunlight, in freckles across cheeks, in angel-wing necklaces.

If Changbin’s heart breaks, it’s going to be such a mess, he knows. And yet, here he is, tearing down all the walls and bandages he’s put up so he can have this, even if it’s just for a little while.

\---

“I’ve got a violin performance this Saturday night,” Felix tells him. “Can you come?”

Changbin has nothing this Saturday night, and he immediately feels slightly guilty, because Felix has always shown great interest in his art— he’ll respond in like with Felix’s music. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “Where is it?”

“Performance art building. Just follow the tuxedos and you’ll be good.”

“Do you have a solo, or what…” Changbin asks, trailing off.

He knows that Felix’s end goal is to get into the Seoul Philharmonic orchestra and compose on the side, not caring of how many hours of practice or day jobs he’ll have to work to accomplish it.

Felix grins. “Actually, I do! It’s like a recital sort of thing. I think I’m smack dab in the middle of the program… you know, gotta like, sandwich me between all of the actual talent.”

Changbin looks at him weirdly. “What are you talking about? Don’t self-depreciate.”

“Eh, I’m just nervous,” Felix says. “You sure you want to come, actually…? You don’t even like classical music that much—”

“I’m going to come,” Changbin says, loud and serious, before realizing how bad that sounds out of context, and promptly regrets everything. Felix catches on a split-second later, due to Changbin’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, and seems about to chide Changbin before he himself doubles over in laughter.

“I will attend,” Changbin hisses, face bright red, “how about that—”

“Thank you,” Felix says, letting out a final wheeze. “No, really. Thank you. That means a lot to me. Not the fact your mind is in the gutter. I meant your attendance.”

So Changbin goes, and he clearly did not get the memo because he’s _severely_ underdressed and fuck, he should have brought flowers— Jisung came, and even he brought flowers, and Changbin will not stoop down to asking Jisung for a couple of blooms.

Felix is correct in the fact that Changbin does not like classical music that much; he only derives joy from about half the performed repertoire. When it’s Felix’s turn, though, it makes up for all of the measures of boredom.

“He looks so good up there,” Jisung whispers, except Jisung does not know how to whisper, so at least three people turn to glare at him. “Why does he associate with us?”

At this moment, it’s a perfectly valid question, but Changbin has to tell Jisung to shut up so that they won’t get murdered by the classical music enthusiasts around them.

Felix is playing a song by Mendelssohn, and Changbin has no idea who this Mendelssohn guy is, but he’ll look him up later because (1) his first name is Felix, and (2) the song feels something a lot like home.

Changbin might not be able to fully appreciate the logistics of the music, or the way Felix effortlessly shifts positions and manipulates dynamics, but Changbin is impossibly proud, revels in how the audience is silent in awe (except for that one person who’s been coughing during all the songs, the _asshole_ ) and how Felix seems like he is designed for the stage.

Changbin will not allow himself to think things like how maybe five years later they might share an apartment, and Changbin will be privy to all the practice that happens backstage, the callouses on Felix’s fingertips from pressing too hard onto the strings, that Felix will be used to inhaling the smell of paint. He will not think things like that because to be honest, he still does not really believe in the concept of forever.

But Mendelssohn’s song speaks the words Changbin is too afraid to use.

When the concert is over, Jisung practically sprints to get to the lobby to talk to Felix, and Changbin forces his way through the flood of people to try and get there as well.

“FELIX,” Jisung yells, “MY DUDE, YOU WERE FANTASTIC—”

There’s a bunch of other people congratulating Felix, Minho and Woojin along with them, and Changbin hangs back for awhile, not wanting to interrupt.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring flowers,” Changbin says, when the tides of people around Felix finally subside. “Or dress up.”

Felix is carrying a shit ton of flowers. “That’s okay, I don’t know how I’m gonna store all these,” he says. “Although— Changbin, really, _jeans_ , and a hoodie—”

“I’m a fucking embarrassment, I know,” Changbin says, pleading. But Felix’s face is bright, from the performance, and from the fact so many people came. And Changbin wants to tell Felix that he did well, so he says— “Also, your playing was amazing.”

Felix’s mouth pulls sideways, amused. “Thank you.”

Changbin feels so inadequate. “Um. Yeah. Go Felix.”

“Let me help you out here,” Felix laughs, and taps on his right cheek. Changbin’s brain short-circuits when he gets what Felix is asking for.

“You—” Changbin stutters.

(All they’ve ever done is hold hands.)

But something in Changbin’s brain malfunctions, logic connecting in strange ways, and Changbin thinks, _okay, it’s been months_ , and maybe he’s wanted to do this for way too long now, but has been too scared to ask, and so instead of where Felix tapped, Changbin aims for the mouth instead.

He misses, because Felix’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back.

“I’m sorry,” Felix says, almost as soon as it happens, “oh my god, you just— give me a _warning_ next time—”

“I think I deserved that,” Changbin says, despite the fact he’s embarrassed as hell, because last time Felix tried to kiss _him_ he’d turned his face and then proceeded to say some of the harshest words he’d ever uttered in his life. “There we go, it’s karma—”

“No,” Felix says, and gives Changbin’s hand a tug, “I was just really surprised. It’s fine. Do it again.”

“I’m not risking it,” Changbin says, crossing his arms, “I’m not getting rejected _twice_.”

Felix rolls his eyes, sets his flowers down, and before Changbin has time to react, he feels something warm and soft brush across his mouth, just for a second.

“Not that hard, see?” Felix says.

Up until that moment, Changbin had (miraculously) managed to forget that they weren’t exactly alone here, but Jisung’s obnoxious wolf-whistle quickly reminds him. “Not that hard,” Changbin stammers, and, so he’ll have an excuse to look down and have something to do with his hands, bends down to pick Felix’s flowers for him.

“You wanna go get food now?” Felix asks. “I’m like… really hungry.”

So is Changbin, actually. The auditorium doesn’t allow food, and the concessions they sold at intermission were way overpriced.

“Sounds good.”

So Felix heads over and pushes his flowers onto Minho— “we don’t have vases in our room,” Minho groans, “so have fun while I _suffer_ trying to put all of these in empty water bottles” — and Changbin looks away from Minho’s critical stare as Felix tugs him out the door, into the night.

It’s freezing and Felix complains about his dress pants frosting over on the way to the restaurant.

There’s something nice about this, past eleven at night, eating in a diner that’s pretty much empty while Felix talks animatedly about his performance. Changbin thinks it’d be a fun picture to paint, Changbin in his normal attire and Felix in his tuxedo, stealing food off of each other’s trays.

They kiss again walking back, the streetlights casting a pair of intertwined shadows on the ground. It’s cold, and to be perfectly realistic Changbin’s face is freezing, but Felix’s mouth is warm, and Changbin attunes himself as much as possible to the slide of Felix’s lips until it gets too damn cold and they actually have to head home.

\---

Time continues, ebbs in and out like the tide.

“Seungmin’s coming home for the summer,” Hyunjin informs him enthusiastically. “In-Min-Bin-Jin will actually be in the same place at the same time for _once_.”

Jisung laughs, sprawled across the bed. It’s March and cold rain patters against the pavement outside the window, but it does nothing to dampen Jisung’s disposition. “Am I allowed to come?”

“Does your name end with an _in_ sound? No, I don’t think so,” Hyunjin says, and Jisung pretends to aim a pillow at the screen.

If he’s being honest, Changbin is a little directionless right now. There is no frantic rush to do anything— he continues to drown in his classes, but after first semester, he is accustomed to the feeling of water filling his lungs. He sets up a badly-designed website for his art, which a couple of people have commissioned him through.

He is in college and he is still lost, still trying to find his place.

Back in high school, he had his crystal-clear goal in mind: get into Seoul University, and just ran toward it despite the fact he’d thought it’d lead to a dead end. Now he is not certain of anything.

But Changbin does not despair. Felix has taught him a lot; who takes it day by day, aims to improve in his skill and make it through to the end of the day as best as he can, keeping solid in his faith in the world and always looking forward. And sometimes Changbin will open Jaebum’s note and read it, and remind himself to continue going at his own pace, despite the fact his knees are bruised and he is not sure of what the next checkpoint is.

Freshman year is more general; he will take more specialized classes next year.

So currently, finishing the semester sounds good. So does meeting Seungmin in the summer. And so does completing his current drawing, which, unfortunately—

“Yeah, this room is closed right now,” Chan says. Changbin stares at him in disbelief from below the carved _3RACHA_ sign, and Chan shrugs. “Minho’s staying overnight, he’s drawing me, isn’t that cool?”

“This room only fits three people,” Jisung says, from behind him.

Changbin stares at him with narrowed eyes. “What the hell, to _both_ of you—”

“Minho says you can take his bed,” Chan continues, grinning. Changbin hoists his bag up further over his shoulder and thinks, _this is my life_. “Which I’m sure you’ll use. No funny business, you guys.”

And then the door shuts in his face.

Changbin looks at the door, before aiming a disbelieving glance at the ceiling, like there’s some higher power up there that will understand his suffering. And then he raps on the door of the room next to him, shifting from one foot to another before it creaks open.

“I was exiled,” Changbin says, by way of introduction.

Felix pulls a face. “I really hate my roommate,” he says. Changbin nods in agreement.

It’s fine, though. Changbin sets up his stuff in the same place he did when he painted Felix, even though he isn’t painting Felix this time. He’s working with perspective on this one— the goal he’s aiming for is that, when hung up, someone looking at the drawing would feel like they were looking through a window.

He sketches a girl, hair dark and shoulder length, maybe the same height as him. She’s wrapping a bouquet of flowers, wrapping a ribbon around the stems, looking over her shoulder to the front of the frame, like she’s going to gift the bouquet to whoever’s looking at her. It’s titled _For You_. He searched up flower meanings for this.

_I love you_ , she says, through the blooms in her hands. _I believe in you_.

That is, _if_ he can get this to fucking work.

Felix makes him take a break at seven, and they eat instant noodles while Felix tells him about how his stand partner was really hungover during rehearsal today and kept on messing up the beat and Changbin listens, amused, before returning to his painting with his heart significantly lighter.

The sky is dark outside when Changbin decides he’s gotten enough work done, and frostily informs his mental Jisung and Chan that yes, he is actually going to take Minho’s bed. Minho is actually scarily neat, clothing bundles tucked away in his cabinet and supplies artfully arranged on top of it, bed made better than Changbin’s ever is. He makes a note to himself to replicate the original state as best as possible next morning.

But as per usual, his brain is running a million miles per hour, and he can’t sleep.

“Changbin?” Felix asks, voice suspended in the dark. “You awake?”

“Yeah…”

“I can’t sleep. Maybe you should come here.”

Changbin smiles, although it’s too dark to see. But it’s easier to say this stuff in the dark, because his voice comes out confident when he says, “You sleep better with someone with you?”

“Oh yeah, absolutely. No ulterior motives at all.”

Changbin has thought about this an embarrassing amount of times, sharing a bed with Felix, but it doesn’t compare to the real thing, how warm and solid Felix is, Changbin’s head tucked against Felix’s collarbones. They fit together. Their souls don’t match, but they fill in each other’s spaces.

He isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, from where he’s got the back of his hand loosely pressed against Felix’s, but he thinks he can feel Felix’s pulse point, so easy to mistake the heartbeat on his wrist for Changbin’s own. And maybe it is. He falls asleep with Felix’s young wings wrapped around him, broken compass giving a few quick spins before its needle settles in a quiet dream.

 

**[PAST]**

 

There was this time in high school when Jaebum told Changbin that when he was younger, on bad days, he’d talk to the moon and feel comforted. “I don’t get why people wish on stars,” Jaebum had said. “I mean— why talk to a tiny pinpoint when there’s a giant silver disk _right there_?”

It doesn’t work for Changbin, but he tries it out.

He’s tired, and he asks the moon if he will get anywhere, if perhaps there will be someone for him, someday. Of course, the moon does not answer. It stays suspended in the sky, cold and motionless. But perhaps he had sent his question to the wrong place.

Thousands of miles down south and a few hours later, the sun rises in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this nowhere near perfect but it's done. to everyone who has made it to the end: thank you. i am so grateful that you took the time to check out this story, you have no idea. 
> 
> my friend (ao3 user melodics) and i wrote a song that correlates a lot with this fic: [link here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BH6oxRWyhCg). please check out her gorgeous vocals and my crappy piano backing... making this took a combined ten years off our lifespans how do stray kids do this stuff on a daily basis 
> 
> i'll be disappearing off the radar for a month or so to write a district 9 au (im late to that bandwagon but whatever)... again, thank you so so much for reading this please have a good day/night wherever you are!!


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